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ICPCOX— THOMPSON— GARRISON— TAPPAN— MAY. ^f 

|Cy Emancipationists !— Amalgamation^! !— Insurrectionists ! ! ! *£3i 




When Cox & Co. proclaim their word — 
Who heeds the wisdom of the Lordl 
Who black'd indeed the Negro's face— 
To mark him as a dift'rent race. — 



PICTURE OF WOONSOCKET, 



OR 



THE TRUTH IN ITS NUDITY; 



TO WHICH ARE ADDED 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THE BEST FRENCH, SPANISH AND 
ITALIAN WRITERS. 



BY THOMAS MAN, 

PROFESSOR OF ELOQUENCE, MORAL PHILOSOPHY 
AND THE LANGUAGES. 



La giustizia e la base di tutte le virtu. La coscienza e potentissiroo e 
certissimo nagello di chi fa male. Giucciardini, 



PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR. 
1835 






Entered according to act of Congress, in the yeah 
one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five, 

BY THOMAS MAN, 

in the Cierk's Office of the District Court of the 

District of Rhode-Island. > 



TO MY PATRONS. 

" Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Ascalon." 

Gentlemen: 
, On my first subscription list, were enrolled the names 
of a number of sneaks — principally, however, confined 
to Smith-field, Wrentham and Diamond Hill Plains. A- 
mong the most distinguished for their high standing in 
rustic society, are the statesman of Smithfield, and the 
doctor on Diam-on Hill Plains — the others being plebi- 
ans, and of " the swinish multitude," I shall not now deign 
to notice, recalling to mind the observation of Sancho 
Panza to his master, " the more you stir it &c. 15 On 
the present list, I have taken care to enroll the names 
of such as' claim the title of men, and will maintain it 
by their conduct: but even you, gentlemen, I think it 
would not be amiss to remind you of the common true 
saying, that punctuality is the life of business — aware 
at the same time, however, that a word to the wise is 
sufficient. My barque is now on an ebb tide, but by 
your assistance, I hope to raise the wind, and get into 
a full sea; for " there is a tide in the affairs of men, 
which taken at its flood leads on to fortune;" though my 
principal object in writing is to purge the noxious vapors 
from the moral atmosphere. My book I have entitled 
"The Picture of Woonsocket," in gratitude for the- 



many favors which I have received in that place, having 
among others, after only about two months residence, 
by universarconsent, received the " Freedom of that 
City" — and as I have no other means of expressing my 
gratitude, being generally without money, and abhorring 
as I sincerely do, ingratitude — being considered among 
the ancients as the greatest of crimes; I now have the 
honor, and at the same time take the liberty, of dedica- 
ting this my work to the citizens of that place, which I 
hope may be to them an acceptable offering, asa " light 
to their path and a lamp to their feet," to guide them in 
the way of all righteousness. 

As the subject would be too local and perhaps unin- 
teresting to many of my readers, I have translated sev- 
eral pieces from the most celebrated French, Spanish 
and Italian authors, which I hope may meet with gen- 
eral approbation. 

THE AUTHOR. 



A SKETCH,— Byron. 

{C Honest — Honest Iago ! 
,; If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill the." 
Shakespeare. 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; 
Next — for some gracious service unexpressed, 
And from its wages only to be guess'd — 
Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 
The genial Confidante, and general spy — 
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess — 
An only infant's earliest governess! 
She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 
That she herself, by teaching, learned to spell. 
An adept next in penmanship she grows, 
As many a nameless slander deftly shows: 
What she had made the pupil of her art, 
None know — but that high soul secured the heart, 
And panted for the truth it could not hear, 
With longing heart and undeluded ear. 
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 
Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not blind 
Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 
Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 
Nor master'd science tempt her to look down — 
On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 
Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 
Nor fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow. 
Nor virtue teach austerity — till now. 



Serenely purest of her sex that live 
But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive^ 
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know. 
She deems that all could be like her below; 
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 
For virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme: — now laid aside too long 

The baleful burthen of this honest song — 

Though all her former functions are no more, 

She rules the circle which she served before, 

If mothers — none know — why — before her quake; 

If daugters dread her for the mothers' sake; 

If early habits-those false links, which bind 

At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 

Have given her power too deeply to instil 

The angry essence of her deadly will; 

If like a snake she steal within your walls, 

Till the black slime betray her as she crawls 

If like a viper to the heart she wind, 

And leave the venom there she did not find; 

What marvel that this hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells. 

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? 

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 

With all the kind mendacity of hints 

While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with 

smiles — 
A thread of candour with a web of wiles; 
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd schem- 
ing. 



A lip of lies— 'a face form'd to conceal; 

And without feeling, mock at all who feel; 

With a vile mark the Gorgon would disown * 

A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone, 

Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 

Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud. 

Cased like the Centipede in saffron mail, 

Or darker greenness of the Scorpion's scale — - 

(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 

Congenial colors in that soul or face) — 

Look on her features and behold her mind 

As in a mirror of itself defined; 

Look on the picture! deem it not o'er charged-— 

There is no trait which might not be enlarged: 

Yet true to " nature's journeymen," who made 

This monster when their mistress left off trade,-— 

This female dog-star of her little sky, 

Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh! wretch without a tear — -without a thought, 
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote when thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou inflicteth now; 
Feel for thy Vile self-loving se]f in vain, 
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 
Back in thy bosom with reflected blight! 
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind! 
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
Black — as thy will for others would create: 
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 



Oh! may the grave be sleepless as the bed — 
The widow 'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread. 
Then when thou fain wouldst weary heaven with 

prayer, 
Look on thy earthly victims — and dispair. 
Down to the dust! and as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
To her, thy malice, from all tie3 would tear — 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on hi^h. 
Exalted o'er thy less abhor'd compeers — 
And festering in the infamy of years. 



RECCOMMENDED TO BE READ IN THE CHURCH AT 

WOONSOCKET FALLS. 

THE DECALOGUE. 

"They prefer darkness rather than light,, because their deeds are evil.," 

1. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God 
in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that tak- 
eth his name in vain. 

2. Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy. 

3. Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work: 

4. But the seventh-day is the Sabbath of the Lord 
thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy 
son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor thy maid- 
servant, nor thy cattle, nor the stranger that is within 
thy gate. 

5. Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days 
may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giv- 
eth thee. 

6. Thou shalt not kill. 

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

8. Thou shalt not steal. 

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy 
neighbour. 

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou 
shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his man- 
servant, nor his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, 
nor any thing that is thy neighbour's. 

li If ye love me, keep my commandments." 

TO WHICH IS ADDED THE PATER NOSTER. 

Pater Noster, qui es in Oralis: Sanctificetur nomeR 
tuum : Adveniat regnum tuum : Fiat voluntas tua, si- 
cut in ccelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidiahum 
da nobis hodie: Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et 
nos ^imittimus debitoribus nostris: et ne nos inducas ux 
tentationem, sed libera nos a, mala, Amrn, 



WOONSOCKET— THE ROME OF AMERICA; 



" And room enough" — for Civilization — Intelligence, and Refinement. 

Woonsocket is in size, an overgrown factory village, 
containing about 2500 inhabitants — situated on the ro- 
mantic Blackstone river; — its location on this earth has 
been accidental; without order or design, and unpremed- 
itated. Its birth, from every probable appearance, has 
been caused by some accidental convulsion of nature — 
indeed, rather an abortion, baffling even the indefatiga- 
ble researches of the most profound naturalists, geolo- 
gists and geographers. To the most careless observer, 
tbere is evidently not that display of supernatural power, 
characteristic of Divine wisdom, visible in other parts 
of the works of creation. It certainly has not the ap- 
pearance of Canaan, the promised land, as described by 
the sacred writers, abounding with milk and honey, 
though many Jews may be found here; extremely rough, 
sandy, barren and unproductive as the great desert of Sa- 
hara; the author of nature has, however, on finding it, fit- 
ted the inhabitants, like the merciless Arabs, to the soil 
in its chaotic state; being like the latter, devoid of all 
the common social feelings of humanity, and every thing 
which renders life amiable ; and like them, not only 
preying on one another, but when a favorable opportu- 
nity presents itself, committing depredations on the un- 
suspecting traveller : sunk in the lowest state of barbar- 
ity and mental degradation, like the Irish Peasantry. 
Russian Boors,, or the reptile-devouring Hotteatots-,- 



11 

where education has scarcely yet shed one ray of light 
among them; if so, yet so limited, as still to be invisible 
to the traveller. 

Among this people, politeness und hospitality are 
terms unknown — and honesty is scarcely understood in 
theory, even by the most virtuous and enlightened of the 
inhabitants; and a man at noonday, like Diogines, might 
seek in vain for such a character, though many might 
be found assuming such a disguise — iS like whitened se- 
pulchres, fair without, but within, full of dead men's 
bones and rottenness ;" and no one could reside a 
month in the place, without the fullest conviction of the 
doctrine of original sin and total depravity. As regards 
business, the traders are rustics, consequently are gen- 
erally very ignorant; their whole knowledge consisting 
of a small stock of ideas, and these wholly exercised in 
over-reaching one another, being in number far more 
than the small sorry place will support on the common 
principles or usual mode of doing business, which natu- 
rally induces great competition; consequently it is con- 
ducted rather after the manner of jockeys than intel- 
ligent and regularly bred merchants. 

The only hotel, * if we may be allowed to debase the 
term by calling it so, is kept by-O-a very mercenary, ava- 
ricious and senseless man, whose sole object is making 
money, without any regard to the comfort and pleasure 
of the traveller. The house is built in very bad taste, 
and every way incommodious, he being the archtect; 
there is, however, one fine thing in the kitchen — a large 
sink opening in the floor, dark as the hole of Calcutta, 
where all the filth of the house is emptied, and carried 

*The Hotel has changed hands since the above was written, and is 
now improved and kept in good style. 



12 

K)$ below by silver pipes. ( !) The table is served in the 
most barbarous style, as you will scarcely ever find a 
decent piece of meat on it, which could be masticated 
with common good teeth — the beefsteak being always 
cut from the thigh or neck of a bullock, consequently 
cheaper, and never half cooked, the fresh blood still 
dripping from it. This is not strange however, when 
we consider the character of the landlord, whose ex- 
cessive selfishness and avarice are visible in almost eve- 
ry thing about the house. The yard before the door is 
ever animated by the presence of a great variety of 
swine, of every color, like Laban's sheep — ring-streak- 
ed and speckled— attracted there, no doubt, by some- 
thing like fellow-feeling. It is true a license has not 
been granted this year by the Town-Council, yet I 
think you may probably find no great difficulty in ob- 
taining any kind of liquor, such as it is, which you may 
happen to wish, provided you pay the cash; — I will not 
presume to say positively, however, that rum presents 
itself as formerly, under its own name, and with the 
s*ame complexion. 

In this place is also a Church, resembling rather the 
school-house of a factory village, built on an elevated 
site, in style, suited to the place; raised like a beacon 
on high, to warn sinners from afar, to flee from the wrath 
to come, and to shed its spiritual light around; where 
the unfledged theological student, still on the confines 
of a college, sometimes enters, to whet his beak, and 
stretch his spiritual wings. On the environs are several 
factories, owned, some of them, by noble, generous, po- 
lite, and very honest men, which give a tone to the man- 
ners and customs of the people, uncouth, boorish and 
barbarous in the extreme. Scandal is the peculiar and 



13 

most interesting subject of conversation among the fe- 
males, and a dish served up and mutually devoured with 
great zest and avidity by virgins, old maids and married 
women — the most wanton and basest kind, is principally 
confined to the widows and married ladies, calling them- 
selves polite; — they are, however, constant at church > 
both day and night, without discovering any visable. 
moral improvement, in their conduct or manners. What 
constitutes here, true nobility among the traders and 
manufacturers, is to pursue their business successfully 
for a time, then declare their bankruptcy or incompetent 
cy to pay their just and honest debts, make an assign- 
ment to some lawyer or younger member of the family; 
defraud their crediters, many times very honest and in* 
dustrious men with a family, (and perhaps machinists, and 
unable to lose without distressing themselves,) build 
magnificient houses, furnish them with elegant furniture, 
purchase a carriage and horses, wearing at the same 
time a smooth exterior, laugh at the importunities of their 
creditors, and live in style — this last is an evil however 
coextensive even with civilization and refinement, — 
though the barbarian may sometimes imitate success- 
fully the vices of society, when he cannot copy indi- 
vidual excellence. There is also established a weekly 
news-paper, from which eminates, ever and anon, gleams 
of light, to illumine the path of the natives, groping in 
moral, intellectual and religious darkness. The prin- 
cipal Bookstore is kept by Mr. — — a meek, demure 
looking man, sitting in his store, like the patriarch Abra- 
ham of old, among his friends and kindred, at the door 
of his tent. Here are several Lawyers of respectable 
talents — one of them, however, keeps himself generally 
kennelled like a Fox-hound, and feeds on hasty-pudding, 
to quicken his scent when in pursuit of legal prey; his 
3 



14 

appearance when he moves, is like the pitch of a lumber 
vessel in a heavy swell of the ocean; he is a disinter- 
ested man, and does every thing for the good of morals 
and the public; and is a great admirer of the fair sex. 
The most popular lawyer of the place, for his manners, 
fitted himself for the Pulpit, and preached for a time, 
said to be a good reader, and of very grave deportment; 
but finding his profession unsuited to that meridian, re- 
linguished the laws of God, to advocate those of men, as 
perhaps thinking, also, the profession more lucrative. 
The last though not least, practices on the immutable 
principle, that self is the main-spring of every good and 
noble action. Their courts are not unfrequently held 
in the royal hall of the Hotel; and the pleadings are 
sometimes not uninteresting, though somewhat swinish. 
The minister* is a careless, easy, slouching sort of a 
man, and if his doctrines harmonize with his name, 
somewhat rigid and impracticable. A Bank is also es- 
tablished here — the Cashier, an intelligent, humorous 
and communicative man, giving however, sometimes, too 
much scope to his passions, to be entitled to the epithet 
of amoral philosopher. They patronise also a Barber, 
a man of open, frank manner, and considerable soul; 
and with his scientific skill in his profession, will give 
even an ordinary head of the place, (which is wonder- 
ful) the expression of Spurzehim. Here are also sev- 
eral Physicians, (iucluding a droll excentric Apotheca- 
ry) agreeable and intelligent men, whose practice how- 
ever in medicine, is not in accordance with the princi- 
ples of the Aesculapian School, but an improved mode 
of treatment, dosing their patients in almost all cases 
with Mercury, " the Samson of the Materia Medica." 

* Siuce the above was written, he has had a successor. 



15 

In tine, almost the only thing which can attract and en- 
tertain the eye of the traveller, is the lofty cataract, 
tumbling in majestic grandeur over the rugged rocks, 
roaring and foaming in the immense and unfathomable 
abyss below, from whose sprays are formed under a clear 
and serene sky, ten thousand beautiful rainbows; while 
the wild, luxuriant and extensive landscape, in the dis- 
tance, over which the eye wanders unsated, fills the 
soul with the most sublime and awful emotions. 



A SKETCH. 

I shall add to the above Characters, a brief description 
^f a fellow, which I met with, in a certain factory village ; 
my first and last visit to that place: they called his 
name* * * * , rather Weevelly — and the Superintend- 
ant — though very difficult to be believed. I shall brief- 
ly notice him, although far beneath my contempt. He 
was a stranger to me, and hope he ever may be. I nev- 
er saw him before, nor do I wish to see him again; yet 
I shall never forget his brutal, savage, and ferocious 
looks; no more than I should afoot-pad, who had attack- 
ed me on the high-way; and I should suppose from his 
general deportment and manners , his birth-place might 
have been Woonsocket, or some other equally obscure 
and immoral place: and he appeared to me, (that was my 
impression at the time,) to use or rather abuse his author- 
ity, like a negro slave, when raised above his fellows — 
brutal in the extreme, and without mercy. He had the 
phisiognomy of a vile, dirty, squalid, insignificant, con- 
temptible,dastardly, assassin-like looking wretch, just 
escaped from the hands of the hangman, or perhaps, 
rather like a resuscitated body, which had been buried 



16 

sometime since in its clothes; and recently dug up, be- 
fore the resurrection, as the clods of the earth seemed 
still sticking to him. In fine, I think you might ransack 
every receptacle of moral degradation and sewer of de- 
pravity; and you would he puzzled to find an animal 
wearing the human countenance, expressing more fully, 
and in bolder relief, all the passions, which degrade hu- 
manity; and I am almost confident, though I did not ex- 
amine his skull at the time, (which would have been im- 
possible, it being so thickly coated with dirt,)that he had 
not the Bump of Benevolence. And no one should he 
see them; could help- feeling some degree of sympathy 
for those unhappy people, who from necessity , are com- 
pelled to daily labor, so many hours, which, God knows 
is severe enough; but how much more so to be subject ? 
at the same time, to the caprice and arbitrary power of 
such an apparently barbarous and malignant miscreant: 
To be as they are , like the brutes which perisb, and pos- 
sessed only of instinct ; deprived of the liberty of thought . 
speech, and body ; one would think, that they must some- 
times at least, imagine themselves on the confines of the 
lower regions, and without much stretch of the imagina- 
tion. And why does not the Government of the United- 
States regulate the time of labor in Cotlo.n Manufacto- 
ries, which is severely oppressive to children, as ha* 
been done in England, by the last Reform Bill? 



LOVE, 

Is a pleasing phrenzy of the mind — an extatic joy of 
the heart — a soft, bland, and intermittent swooning of 
the soul — an exquisite inebriation of the brain, running 
through the nervous system— and an inflexible resolu- 
tion to sacrifice every thing to the object of your affec- 
tion.. 



17 

There is no symyathy in hell, saith the Lord. 
"In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark 
night; and behold there met him a woman with the at- 
tire of a harlot, and subtle of heart." 
'I'd rather be a slut and bay the moon than such a woman. ' ' 
Lo! she comes, clothed in the habiliments of moral 
death— the devil in her eye — guile in her heart — honey 
on her tongue — and the kisses of her lip, breathe con- 
tagion and misery. 

Indeed! since first this lower world had birth, 
A heartless female is a scourge on earth. 
It puts my feelings, far beyond control, 
To see a handsome face without a soul: 
Frailty! says Shakspeare, thy name is woman! 
Thanks to my stars, such coquettes are not common, 
They're like a thorn deep rankling in the breast, 
With them a very stoic finds no rest. 
They wear the smiles and features of a saint, 
Ought daily for their sins to repent. 
Would harrow up the feelings of the mind, 
Of barb'rous savage — brutal — unrefin'd. 
Soon would disgust and weary man of life — 
Curse such a wretch, to have her for a wife. 
The best of men would wish her soul in hell, 
Where her congenial, outcast spirits dwell. 
I do despise, sincerely, from my heart, 
Her, who possess'd of all the vilest art, 
Would wound, with pleasure, the most feeling soul : 
Among God's works, the basest is, of all. 
Thinks by her charms to lead vou by the nose, 
Oft in a game, instead of win, we lose; 
'Tis right when candor we too much abuse. 
Oft when wit and beauty know their power, 

4 



18 

They like a tyrant push conquest too far. 

Go! — search the earth's remotest verge around — 

A female of less virtue can't be found— 

E'en in a brothel — or on monkish ground. 

And if your heart, by sin, is not yet sear'd, 

The ghosts of wicked deeds are to be fear'd. 

Prone to blame the vices of another, 

But with much art, try your own, to smother. 

You know how oft, I've knel't before your chair 

With fervent heart, though not devote to prayY 

Had I with half the ardor, knel't to heav'n, 

My sins had been erac'd — myself forgiv'n. 

" Pardon my crime — take back your Coin and chain: 

I've lied — betray 'd — to whom, shall I complain* 

I swoon — I die — my love's return'd again — 

And only he can sooth my am'rous pain. 

The aching void, which in my heart I feel; 

Perhaps, a pretty baby-boy, might heal." 

In retrospection — look at your past life — 

A blot upon the sex — a faithless wife! 

For shame! prostrate yourself, low in the dust — 

Avert th'impending fate that waits th'accurs't. 

"Do by another — as you'd have him do" — 

I ask — have I been treated so by you? 

How many pangs we all should save ourselves — 

To nobly think — and thus behave ourselves — 

The living law , deep-written m the breast, 

Outrag'd — the tortur'd victim finds no rest. 

How wise its dictates, ever, then to heed — 

An act once done — who can undo the deed? 

Yes — to God and your conscience now I leave you ; 

Whose boundless grace at last, perhaps may save U. 



Hail blackest midnight with thy deeds of death! 
Touch my tongue with gall, empoison my breath — 



19 

Pour o'er my mind the fell asp's black venom, 
While I sketch another, worthless woman. 
With Syren smile, the dire assassin's heart, 
Sharing in ail that's, infamous a part. 
She's Malice's self, and stabs with careless ease; 
Then heals the wound with best Cantharidcs. 
A Proteus assuming ev'ry shape, 
From the fine lady, to a lech'rous ape. 
" Would win her way, where virtue might dispair," 
With her soft, simp'ring, hypocritic air. 
But should she enter the dark shades below, 
Would add to Pluto's harp, a string of wo. 
Excite rebellion througout all the realm, 
Assassinate the Prince, then take the healm. 
Like Herod, slay the imps of smallest size, 
Whose horrid shrieks would rend the vaulted skies. 



What splendid Genius bursts upon my sight? 
A radiant star upon the brow of night — 
His mighty birth upthrew the sluggish clod, 
And rolling billows swept the shore of Cod* 
Hark! the loud thunder rends the vault of heav'n, 
The tremb'ling stars like frighten'd sheep are dfriv'n. 
Lo! — through the murky gloom, the meteor pale, 
Strode by the Devil, with a fiery tail; 
Like the proud ship, o'er ocean lofty sail. 
The thund'ring cat'ract swells with louder roar; 
Remotest* hills repeat it to the shore. 
The sombre woods send forth a hollow sound, 
Ten thousand lifeless lions strew the ground; 
The trees with terror topple all around. 
The tow'ring eagle from his lofty flight, 
Like the wing'd light'ning, falls with direful fright. 
A thousand monkeys chatt'ring on the trees, 
f Cape-Cod— The Artist's Birth-place. 



20 

Freight with their uncouth noise, the distant breeze, 
The haggard wolf sends forth a doleful howl, 
The raven hoarsely croaks, now hoots the owl. 
The moon grew pale, the sun astonish'd stood; 
The fish aghast, forsook their wonted food; 
The boundless ocean, one vast sea of blood: 
Nature herself retires to ancient night; 
Men — Imps — Devils — are fill'd with dire affright. 
Mis name is B #### **! — Raphael's darling child, 
He took his magic pencil — nature smiPd. 
The living canvass breathes with vivid touch, 
Here frowns a Tyrant-King — there glides a witch. 
Music now binds in chains, the raving* Saul; 
A gleam of light, arrests the hand of Paul. 
A brilliant star illumes the shepherds' path 
To him, who died, to slake th'Almighty 's wrath 
See! Cain with envy, on his brother fall — 
Whose mark time can't erace, out cast of all. 

Lo! mighty ## **, with a tragic frown, 
Another Jeffreys, knocks the Poet down. 
"So inharmonious flow his numbers, 
Sometimes he raves — and sometimes slumbers. 
The measure, so imperfect in each line, 
Uncouth the rythm, and ary thing but fine; 
How unlike Milton, splendidly, divine!" 
I'd rather bear the royal eagle's bick, 
Than feel the Turkey-Buzzard at me pick. 
The Ass' hoof indeed is harder borne, 
Than by the lion nobly to be torn. 

See! smooth-tongued H . in the distance stands, 

A tough beef-steak hangs dangling from his hands, 
Around his neck, a broken bottle slung, 
Kneeling he prays, in tears, his License gone, 



21 

And why his License gone ? The Council know, 
The people get so drunk and stagger so; 
They cannot walk, but reel both to and fro. 

What miscreant hag stalks amid the gloom? 
The blackness of her heart, her looks assume. 
Her Gorgon-head strikes the soul with horror; 
Her face reflects envy like a mirror; 
And all the basest passions of the heart, 
Lie rankling there, to play their fiendish part. 
Detraction foul , here quickly, has her birth ; 
And ev'ry other which doth scourge the earth. 
She riots on the blight of loveliest charms, 
And kills in embrio, fair virtue's germs. 
The fellest venom from her tongue she spits, 
And ev'ry beauteous flow'r unerring hits. 
One only pleasure could assuage her hearty 
The closest twine of friendship rent apart. 
Her smile is the vindictive smile of death; 
To see her victim fall, deprived of breath. 
Whose early youth, alluringly discloses, 
A lovely cheek, where innocence reposes; 
A bunch of lilies intertwin'd with roses. 
A child of nature prematurely grown, 
Which Genius'self had fondly call'd her own. 
The low'ring flame glares beneath her brow — - 
Go! see the wretch, since language can't tell 'how > 
Her Guide, black Turpitude, before her stands, 
Beckons her on, with sacrilegious hands; 
Through paths, which none but cursed fiends e'er 

trod, 
Or abase woman, damn'dest work of God. 
Her movement still, the murdr'er's softly step. 
Half leaning o'er one's couch, when lost in sleep. 
With eye intent, she o'er her victim stands 3 



22 

A thirsty dagger clutch'd in both her hands: 
Uprais'd with fell intent, eager to kill; 
Waiting alone her base companion's will. 
E'en Hell itself would blacken at her frown, 
Satan affrighted, drop his glitt'ring Crown. 
The infernal Hecate chaunted at her birth, 
And ev'ry reptile hiss'd along the earth. 
Grirn death on a pale ass came riding by, 
And ev'ry Hell-hound rais'd a hideous cry: 
K'en Spectre Time rear'd his sharp scythe on high. 
From putrefaction sprang her worthless mind — 
Chain'd to the basest clay of human kind. 
Her heart, her mind, nature's foul abortion; 
Of all that's lovely, a base distortion. 
From out her wicked loins a bantling sprung — 
It gasp'd — then died — unsir'd — unwept — unsung. 
May the evils which her passions gender, 
Like black fiends at ev'ry step attend her. 
* f With whip ofscorpions lash her round the world;'' 
Then from time's confines, let her soul be hurl'd. 
From Blue, her soul has chang'd to blackest dye. 
And in the lowest hell — Oh! may it lie — 
Grasp'd by th'eternal worm and never die. 
Whose awful folds, with mighty writhings, clasp 
Its victim still, at each convulsive gasp — 
At ev'ry ceaseless turn and torture dire, 
Envellop more in everlasting fire. 
As far too base for Satan's realms below, 
As he himself, in heav'n above, to go. 



ORDER AND CHAOS— MORNING SPLENDOR AND MID- 
NIGHT DARKNESS, 

Or the Negro and White Man Contrasted, 

The image of the negro surely could not have been 
painted on the retina of the eye of the illustrious Shaks- 
peare.when he bursts forth into the following enthusias- 
tic and poetic language: — What apiece of work is man! 
How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! in form 
and moving, how express and admirable! in action how 
like an angel! in apprehension, how like a God! the 
beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! — Or the dis- 
tinguished Maxcy when he says, "Erect in stature man 
differs from all other animals, though his foot is confined 
to the earth, yet his eye measures the whole circuit of 
the heavens, and in an instant takes in thousands of 
worlds:' 5 — or the sacred historian when he declares that. 
61 God created man from the dust of the earth after his 
own image, and breathed into him the breath of life, and 
he became a living soul. 15 View the negro in all his 
relations, and does he appear to be a being of the above 
descripton? And do^s he justify the remarks? But 
does he not on the other hand, seem rather to establish 
the opinion expressed by some of the most learned Com- 
mentators on the Bible, in relation to his color, to the 
curse pronounced on Cain for his transgression? And 
has he not the indelible mark of blackness stamped on 
his visage? Look at his figure, and is there any resem- 
blance to the Apollo Belvidere? And is there any thing 
like intelligence impressed on his brow? But is he not 
rather the image of vacancy and stupidity, resembling 
rather, in his movement, a gloomy, painted Automaton, 
put in motion, without volition, by some secret and 



24 

invisible, mechanical machinery, like the Turkish Chess 
Player? And contemptious the Miscreant and blasphem- 
ous the Wretch, who, like Cox, would proclaim from 
the sacred Desk, The Saviour, to have been a Negro 
— " who spake as never man spoke." How revolting 
the thought to reason and common sense; as if the Al- 
mighty ''whose presence fills immensity, and even the 
heaven of heavens cannot contain Him," — would reveal 
himself in the flesh, and condescend to assume the 
gloomy vestments of such mortality! Naturalists and all 
intelligent writers, who have ever expressed any opin- 
ion on the subject, have classed men as animals, placing 
the negro in the lowest scale of human intelligences — 
a connecting link in the great chain of beings, between 
men and animals; as is the Polypus between the vegita- 
ble and animal kingdom. The monkey or baboon, as is 
highly probable, was created only as a carricature of the 
negro (herhaps some may doubt it, but the " ways of 
the Lord are mysterious and passed finding out") to the 
form of which has been superadded the extra appendage 
ofatailto complete the picture. Sure Milton, the im- 
mortal Bard, could have no reference to the Negro 7 
when he describes our first parents, Adam and Eve. 
as fresh-coming' from the hand of their divine Maker; 
on whose forms and features were beutifully and nobly 
impressed the image of the Deity — as described in 
-PARADISE LOST:" 

-His fair, large front and eye sublime declar'd, 
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks 
Round from his parted forehead manly hung 
Ciust'ring, but not beneath his shoulders broad; 
She as a veil, down to the slender waist 
Her unadorned golden tresses wore 
Dishevell'd, but in wanton ringlets wav'd 



25 

As the viae cuds his tendrils which imply 'd 
Subjection, requir'd with gentle sway, 
And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd 
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride. 
And sweet reluctant amorous delay." 

Ransack the Archives of ancient and modern histo- 
ry- — traverse the boundless regions of Africa— and 
where do we find any indications of talent and genius 
or the least traces of inventive or creative minds —have 
they ever, like Egypt, Greece and Rome, flourished in 
the Arts and Sciences, though left to themselves, to form 
their own free and independaut laws and institutions? 
Have they ever produced men, eminent in any of the de- 
partments of Science? Have they erected pyramids, 
splendid temples, built magnificent cities— and if so, 
where are they? We find no mention of them in history 
or the writings of travellers. Have they ever carried 
on an extensive navigation with the civilized parts of 
the Globe? Where are their ships and distinguished 
admirals, or navigators ? Have they ever sent ambassa- 
dors to foreign powers to negotiate treaties? Where 
are their statesmen? Have we any translations in the 
modern languages of the speeches or writings of their il- 
lustrious scholars, their philosophers, their orators, their 
judges, their poets ? Have they ever produced a Confu- 
cius, a Zoroaster, a Socrates, a Bacon, a Newton, a De- 
mosthenes, a Solon, a Fenelon, aShakspeare, a Milton? 
No— from all which we have read or discovered, 'tis pre- 
posterous to draw such an inference. Surely then from 
what has been said, and can be irrefutably established; 
we have every reason to believe, that the Almighty nev- 
er created the negro with an intellect and capacities for 
improvement in the arts and sciences,equal to the white 
man, (though there are now many in the United States 

5 



26 

who have received a fair education:) who is endowed by 
nature with energies, and we see many instances of it* 
capable of bursting with refulgent splendor from th6 
greatest obscurity, and under the greatest disadvanta- 
ges in relation to education and local circumstances; 
astonishing the world with the prodigious powers of 
their gigantic mind and conceptions. On the other hand 
from thousands of experiments which have been made 
from time immemorial by philanthropists, anti-slavery 
men and amalgamationists, a host of facts can be de- 
duced, to prove the truth of the assertion, that he has a 
phisical and mental incapacity for such high and lofty 
attainments; but that he is a dull, stupid, apathetic ani- 
mal — an opaqe body, and so extremely so, and differing 
so much from every other, that he is both incapable of 
receiving or reflecting light: thick skulled; (and I will 
refer you to the best works on anatomy, ancient or mod- 
ern) and ordinarily about an eighth of an inch thicker 
than that of a white man, roughly and hastily finished, 
and which you all very well know, they use not unfre- 
quently, liket he Battering-Ramof the ancients — and 
matted with a kind of black, heavy, coarse wool, but differ- 
ing from that of a Sheep, or any other useful animal, as 
it cannot when sheared off be applied to any particular 
or advantageous purpose: and black, like his physiogno- 
my, which indicates no thoughts within. A complete, 
striking, and not to be mistaken or forgotten index of a 
sluggish mind, whose exhalations are like that of a dead 
morass — flat nosed — thick lipped — with however, two or 
three extra , graceful curves — a lack-lustre eye, gazing 
on vacancy — a body, unseemly, uncouth and deformed: 
emitting, under a hot sun, an effluvia, which strikes the 
olfactory nerves, like the particles flying off from musk: 
with a pair of legs, the calves in front, serving as a 



27 

cushing to protect his shins; (which by the way, may be 
perhaps, an improvement;) and which from their crook- 
edness, resemble a detached, leather horse-collar — 
stuck in two large and long extremities, of more capac- 
ious dimension than a wooden trencher — And should 
you attentively regard what was intended as a face, arid 
then his feet, when at rest; you would be undeter- 
mined, from their equal projection behind and before, 
which way, when he started, his intention was, to move. 
"The ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master's 
crib," but the negro doth not know it. The natives of 
Africa, have ever been, and now are, a numerous race; 
(you know the most insignificant animals, are always 
the most productive;) yes, as numerous as the myriads 
of insects, which swarm on the banks of the Mississip- 
pi — or the lice and locusts, on the coast of Egypt, when 
smote, through divine interposition, by the rod of Aaron. 
Yet amid all the hosts of Blacks, bearing some very 
faint outlines of resemblance to the human species; no 
men of distinction, have, however, even to this day, ris- 
en among them — and where the Supreme Being, has, 
by some inconceivable movement of the clods of the 
earth, thrown them into being; to propagate — -rot — and 
finally, be swept away, by the ruthless hand of time, 
amid the ruins of crumbling matter, into the gulf of 
annihilation and oblivion. — 

Indeed! one case alone proves not my Doctrine false, 
No more than partial custom, sanctions German Waltz. 
Amboy*, though black, 'tis true, is grac'd with form 

and sense; 
e< Beauty in eclipse, Paragon of excellence." 

*A native of Providence, remarkable for the symmetry of his form^ 
^»4 the intellectual beauty of his face. 



28 

A Newton in disguise, which time alone can tell; 
Perhaps ere long, his thoughts may burst their secret 

shell; 
His mind may be profound, tho' black his face as hell . 

I shall say but little on the subject of Amalgamation — 
and shall only record the names of the miscreant Ad- 
vocates of the Doctrine — 

SO- COX— THOMSON— GARRISON— TAPPAN 

— MAY,^| 

to be held up for the contempt and execration of all ra- 
tional and sensible men: their reptile satellites are too 
insignificant to notice; and may undisturbed, sink back 
into their original nonentity: — however, should we take 
their worthy leaders, as a standard of man — in a phisi- 
cal, moral, and intellectual point of view; the negro, evi- 
dently, would not suffer in comparison, but appear con- 
spicuously preeminent. These are theFanatics, spok- 
en of, in the Scriptures; as having more zeal than knowl- 
edge; and compassing both sea and land, to make one 
proselyte — 

When COX & Co proclaim their word, 

Who heeds the wisdom of the Lord? 

Who black'd, indeed, the negro's face; 

To mark him, as a diff'rent race. 

It is high time, for these Fanatics and Incendiaries, 
to pause in their mad career, and consider the baleful 
effects of their inflamatory addresses and senseless pam- 
phlets — the insurrections, and consequent executions, 
of their black brethren, which they have, and will con- 
tinue, to produce, unless immediately checked by the 
good sense of the people; besides, jeopardizing, at the 
same time, the lives of all the white population at the 
South — and what should be reprobated above all, by ev~ 



29 

ery good citizen, is to see those, who are called respecta- 
ble Clergymen, throughout the Country, neglecting 
their pastoral duties, intermeddling in things with which 
they have no business; enlisting under the Banner of 
Negro Slavery; whose concern, alone, should be, and 
is quite sufficient, to take care of the flocks committed 
to their charge; and God knows there is need enough of 
it, even among Protestants: and I do not believe that it 
would be hazarding an opinion, to say, that if the con- 
duct of many of those who call themselves, christians, — 
should be tested by the high standard of Morals, of some 
of the ancient Philosophers; saySocrates # and Plato, 
who by the light of nature alone; and without the aid of 
Divine Revelation; but by the effort of their gigantic 
intellect, taught the immortality of the soul; and so much 
denounced at the present day, by those who believe 
themselves, like the Jews, to be a favored people, and 
guided by a divine light, would fall far short of it, in good 
works and disinterested benevolence. I would not how- 
ever, be understood, as not having the highest venera- 
tion, for the fundamental principles of Christianity; 
though I cannot refrain from saying, in sincerity; as far 
as my observation extends; that there is avast difference 
between the actions of men, and the principles by which 
they pretend to be guided. 
One word more on Slavery — The Public are repeatedly 
told by such men as Thomson and his accomplices — na- 
tives of Europe, and who have never had a residence 
in any part of the Southern States, that the Slaves 
are brutally arid unmercifully abused — and where do 

*To those who are unacquainted with the life, character, doctrines and 
death of Socrates, the most amiable of the ancient Philosophers; as he 
has been so frequently misrepresented, I would refer them to the dia- 
logue of Phedon on the immortality of the soul. — See Plato's Works* 



so 

they get their information? From common report; pro- 
verbially, a liar: for neither they nor any other person 
can know thorougly, the manners and customs of a com- 
munity, without, at least, a temporary residence among 
those, whose habits and manners, they attempt to por- 
tray. And even suppose, if you please, that there is 
among their black brethren at the South, as much abuse, 
and inhumanity as they would represent; and for whom 
they have such an overweening sympathy; why do they 
not like St. Paul, promulgate their doctrine of Eman- 
cipation, in person, in that section of the country, where 
the evil exists; and like him, to prove their sincerity in 
the cause, which they have espoused, be willing to 
suffer perils by sea and by land; and not disturb the re- 
pose of the peacable citizens of the New-England States, 
where the liberty of the negro, has already, degenerated 
into the grossest licentiousness. The reason is obvi- 
ous; they dare not venture themselves there, apprehen- 
sive ofthe meeting with their just deserts; the loss of 
their head or ears — or perhaps a more elevated stand 
in society. I have taken every opportunity to inform 
myself, in relation to the condition ofthe Slaves, at the 
South, generally ; and have been repeatedly told, not only 
by southern gentlemen themselves, but by men of intelli- 
gence and integrity, natives of New-England, who have 
resided a long time among them, that their condition, is 
preferable to many free negroes, or the inmates of a Cotton 
Factory — for they have nearly two days relaxation from 
labor in a week; nor do they work more than ten hours 
per day, throughout the year, when thev, do labor; and 
some of them are worth several hundred dollars; which 
they have made from the cultivation of a plot of ground, 
the common privilege of the Slaves generally: Besides, 
as regards the abuse of them, is there any thing proba- 



31 

ble in the statement? Even suppose the Planters had 
reference, merely, to their own self-interest — would it be 
policy, in a man, who owned Slaves, or any other ani- 
mals, or would it not? To treat them kindly, to feed and 
keep them well and comfortable; not only to gain their 
good feelings, but to qualify them to discharge more 
faithfully their duty, and perform more labor in a given 
time: for what horse or ass, would be so profitable to his 
master; whether he wishes him for his own private use, 
or to let; if he kept him half-starved, and abused him? 
And neither do I believe it to be a principle in haman 
nature, to wantonly abuse without any motive or induce- 
ment, so to do, any living animal, which would argue the 
greatest malignity and stupidity. 

To conclude — Previous to the adoption of theFede- 
ral Constitution of the United States; the subject of the 
Right of the South, to hold Slaves, was elaborately, 
ably, and fully discussed, by the most distinguished 
Statesmen, from the different sections of the country, 
then in congress assembled: and the difficulty was com- 
promised, by a concession of the North to the South 
of that Right — Now shall we attempt to nullify the acts 
of such men as — Washington — Franklin — Hamilton — 
Ames and others? And under no other circumstances, 
and on no other ground, could the Constitution, then, 
have been adopted; and we might perhaps, have been, 
even now, Colonies of Great Britain — -Now shall Eng- 
land send over to this Country, her vagabond anti- 
slavery missionaries, as among Barbarians, repre- 
senting things that are not true, neither can they be sub- 
stantiated; to dictate to us, and construe our laws — (and 
where does she get the Right ?)* sowing the seed of civ- 

*Perhaps, from the same source, as the crowned heads ofEurope, when 
they formed themselves into a league, and assumed the epithet of the 



il discord among the people of these United States — pro- 
voking intestine divisions and civil war; laboring ma- 
lignantly to destroy that sacred instrument, the Con- 
stitution — the Palladium of our civil and religious liber- 
ty, deluging the Country with blood — to triumph over 
our ruin? Let the people of the North enlist themselves 
under the Banner of Negro-Slavery — assist the English 
Emissaries, in emancipating the Southern Slaves — let 
England still continue to keep open the Irish flood-gate 
of moral pollution; (look at New-York, during her elec- 
tions, where Free Suffrage exists) inundating the Coun- 
try with her vagrant and corrupt Catholic Priests — 
and their base and ignorant Convicts of the Roman 
Catholic Religion— and we may anticipate with the full- 
est assurance, the period, and perhaps not far distant; 
when the leopard shall change his spots — the Ethiopian, 
his skin, the child shall harmlessly, stroke the crest of the 
basilisk; and the lion and the lamb lay down together. 

Holy Alliance — My Countrymen — spurn with indignation and contempt 
the incendiary ,who clothed in the garb of the philanthropist, is tramp- 
ling under loot, your dearest Rights and privileges — Strip him of his 
hypocritical disguise; and expose the turpitude of his heart — Why dors 
not the Government of the United States adopt some effective measures, 
before it is too late, to check the constant influx of European Mission- 
aries, renegade Irishmen, and profligate Priests? 



33 
THE MISER. 

[Concluded from the 34th page, 8th line from the bottom; " The Picture 
of a Factory Village.] 

Knows the world mocks, at his expense, 
Which touches not, his obtuse sense. 
Against its scorn, he shields himself, 
By counting o'er his glitt'ring pelf. 
And the sly mouse's tread at night, 
Fills his vile soul with horrid fright. 
Springs from his couch with dire dismay, 
And hugs his Gold, till dawn of day. 
E'en at the lightest breath of air, 
Around his haggard eye doth glare, 
And horrent stands his swinish hair. 
Fancies at ev'ry whisp'ring breeze^ 
A robber's ghost he plainly sees. 
Clasps closer in his shrivel'd arms, 
The Bag which holds his glitt'ring charms. 
His lab'ring bosom, heaves with sighs, 
Dreaming,he opes and shuts his eyes. 
He sees his house enwrap'd with fire, 
The crack'ling flames ascending higher; 
And hears the crashing rafters fall, 
Just saves his worthless self,is all. 
His ship rides out the howling storm, 
And now in sight of land is come; 
The crew are sav'd, but vessel lost, 
Which tears his wretched soul the most. 
Exhausted, sinks to fitful rest, 
Ten thousand night-hags on his breast. 
At him, let scorn point her finger, 
While on earth he still shall linger. 
And when he leaves his sordid Dust, 
Let him with Pluto be accurst, 



THE FLOWER OF PARADISE. 

Look! — see the pretty smiling flow'r, 
Which argues strange, myster'ous pow'r: 
Resembles lovely thing on earth, 
And born when beaut'ous Eve had birth. 
Rosy, luscious, soft, silken thing, 
With pretty, virgin veins like ring; 
The heav'nly tribute of the spring; 
A worthy off'ring for a king; 
Flora — a thousand others bring. 
With them will deck my golden lyre, 
And strew them o'er the sounding wire. 
The fragrance breathes beneath the nose, 
More odorif'rous than the rose. 
Wiil wreathe them round my lady's breas^ 
Where young arch Cupid seeks his nest. 
Will twine them round her flowing hair, 
In summer, when her neck is bare; 
When Zephyr breathes a murm'ring sound; 
The tiny hair-bell decks the ground; 
The beaut'ous landscape smiles around; 
And wakes to ectacy the note, 
As pour'd from mellow goldfinch's throat; 
Seems on the liquid air to float; 
And raise my mind to thought sublime; 
Pore o'er the beauties of each clime, 
Which Fancy may bring together: 
• And when compar'd each with other; 
The little roseate Venus flow'r, 
In native worth, eclipses far. 
Oh! look! 'tis wither 'd on my breast; 
An hour's duration, e'en the best. 



35 
l^HE BREAKFASTS OF THE VILLAGE; 

OR THE ADVENTURES OF INNOCENCE. 

[Translated from the French of Marmontel.] 
The First Breakfast,— The Window. 

I had for a village neighbour, a little old woman, of 
an amiable disposition, and of a figure where one still 
saw all the traces of beauty. Her complexion had lost 
its rosy hue; it was no longer the down of the peachy 
but it was the polish, and even a little of the vermillion 
of a beautiful apple concerved during the winter. The 
play of her physiognomy was full of finesse and vivacity ; 
some sparks of fire darted even yet from her eyes when 
they were animated; some young ladies would have en- 
vied her the sweetness and charm of her smile; and by 
her cheerfulness, her desire to please, the traits of sen- 
sibility which escaped her, above all the graces of her 
mind and those of her manners, there is no one who 
would not have said with Fontenelle, that Love had 

passed by there. 

She had formed to herself in her village a small soci- 
ety of friends, who went every morning to take tea with 
her, sometimes in a smiling saloon, and sometimes in 
open air beneath a fresh bower of verdure. I was of 
the number of these friends. She loved to relate sto- 
ries of times past, and we loved very much to hear her. 

Madam, said we to her one day, all your recitals en- 
chant us; but that of which we should be the most curi- 
ous, would be, it is necessary to avow it, the history of 
your youth. You are not disgusted, says she to us; 
and in effect, if I wished, I should have much where- 
with to amuse you. But I never speak of myself; and 
the reason is, that in speaking of ones-self we seem ever 
to flatter ourselves, or at least to spare ourselves; and 



36 

never does the hearer fail to diminish the good and add 
to the evil. We assured her that we believed it on her 
iaith, and that each of her words should be taken to the 
letter. What, says she, will you never be tempted to 
suppose in my recitals some little concealments and sup- 
ply them ? — No, never. — And as long as 1 shall live, 
you will keep for me the secret ? — Yes, as long as we 
shall live ourselves. — Oh! no, says she, it would be too 
much to expect from you; and at least ought I to per- 
mit that at my age you should relate each one to your 
friends, what the good madam of Closan shall have told 
you of her youthful follies. But I warn you that the 
history of them is a little long; that I shall make some 
pauses in it, and that we have sufficient to last for three 
or four breakfasts. So much the better said we to her; 
and, after having poured oat our tea, she commenced 
her recital. 

I was born rich without knowing it; my father a skill- 
ful merchant, had with difficulty amassed a large prop- 
erty, enclosed in his port-folio. I was yet a child when 
he died; I had now no longer a mother; I remained 
according to custom, at the mercy of an uncle, my tutor, 
and of an aunt his wife, both devout but avaricious, 
both of my property as well as their own. I have no 
need of telling you that being severe to themselves, in 
quality of misers, they were no less so to me. 

Their first idea was that if I knew early what my fort-, 
une was, by this impression alone, and in spite of all 
th&ir cares, I should be a spoiled child. This foresight 
was wise; but their prudence went too far; and, in or- 
der to render me more docile and to keep me more de- 
pendant, they made me believe that my parents left me 
nothing. Of all the jewels of my mother, this little 
heart of gold was the only one which they gave me. As 



37 

to the property of my father, they had taken the same 
care to make it productive and to conceal it from me. 
Thus 1 believed myself an object of pity to those of my 
relations who held me under their guardianship, and 
there never was a severer or more sad one. Until the 
sixteenth year of my age, I had scarcely ever seen the 
day but through my window. But at sixteen years, this 
window caused me to see something which was more 
dear to me than the day ; a young and beautiful clerk of a 
notary who, in the morning with fair hair of the softest 
tinct, negligently turned back by a comb and half float- 
ing, took a moment the air at his window, opposite mine, 
before going to study. Imagine to yourself Apollo in 
his indian robe de chambre; this was my clerk, for from 
this moment he was mine; he has been so all his life; 
and it is of him that I am the widow: I anticipate you 
ia relation to it and with reason. 

In seeing him for the first time, all that which had un- 
til then been confused in my soul and in my thoughts, 
the ennui of my solitude the vagueness of my reveries, 
the inquietude which from the last watching pursued me 
in my sleep, all appeared to manifest itself. I believed 
to see what was wanting to my happiness. But the in- 
terval of the little court which seperated us from one 
another, was an abyss to leap over: our regards at least 
overleaped it. His surprise, his emotion, the ravish- 
ment which my sight caused him were too sensible. He 
must have perceived himself also the movement which 
I experienced, for it was involuntary, I had not time to 
think of it; but I am sure at least that it was timid, and 
mingled with that modesty which is an instinct of inno- 
cence. It was this modesty which warned me that I 
ought not to remain a long time at the window, opposite a 
young man who took pleasure in seeing me. I retired* 

7 



38 

I made some turns in my chamber, I had the air of amu^ 
ing myself with my birds; but all my movements led 
me back to the same point. I went, I returned, I pass* 
ed like a shadow, and at every turn, I observed with a 
glance of the eye, if any one noticed me. My young 
clerk, immoveable and ravished, followed^me, spoke to 
me with his eyes, and seemed to reproach mine for not 
fixing themselves alone on him. 

In fine, I had the courage to steal myself from his 
view; but the rest of the day was to me only a dream, 
and the cares with which I was occupied, were unable to 
draw me from him I was under the eyes of my aunt, 
who seemed to observe me more attentively, more se- 
verely than ever. To conceal from her my trouble, I 
wished to read; and 1 saw in my book only blue eyes 
and fair hair. She asked me an account of my reading; 
I knew not what I said. I complained of a dazzling 
which I wished to conceal from her, for fear, said I, of 
alarming her tenderness; and God knows how tender 
she was! The day appeared long tome; I desired the 
night to be alone with myself, and with the hope that 
sleep, favorable to my reverie, would only prolong it. 
I prayed for it in delivering myself up to its influence, 
and it had this complaisance. 

We were in the month of April, and at the moment 
of this revival, of this beautiful return of youth which 
nature, alas! should have granted us as well as to these 
beautiful vegetables ! but myself I was in my spring ; and 
my awaking was this day as early as that of aurora. Yet 
my young Apollo had been more diligent than myself 
He waited for me at the window. In seeing him there r 
I knew not what said to me that there was a rendez-vous 
there. I was confused to find myself there; but I dis- 
sembled my embarrassment in feigning to be occupied, 



39 

as one says, only with the air of the season. He sur- 
prised, however, some one of my looks, and on saluting 
me, he made a sign with his eyes and a gesture which 
he did very handsomely. As there was no harm in that, 
I returned his salutation, and with a sign of the head, 
I agreed with him that it was fine. I have discovered 
since that at the age of sixteen to eighteen, when we are 
agreed on one point, we are soon so as to all the rest. 
I was then wrong, and I confess it, to agree that he did 
well. 

Content inhaving engaged with me in this mute conver- 
sation, he wished to pursue it. He placed his hand on 
his heart, and expressed the pleasure of respiring an air 
so pure! I had the imprudence to imitate him again. 
He became more bold; and, measuring with his eyes the 
space which seperated us, he appeared to groan and sigh 
with ardor. As to the act, I understood him well, but 
I did not imitate him; and I reproached myself with 
forming an acquaintance with a young man who seemed 
to me assuredly of respectable birth, but of whom I knew 
neither the situation, nor even the name. 

I kept myself close some forenoons, seeking to occupy 
myself, and having, in spite of myself, only a single and 
the same thought. By what singularity of my destiny, 
had this young man come to take lodgings opposite me! 
But for that, should I deprive myself of the only pleas- 
ure which I had in life, of the innocent pleasure of re- 
spiring the air of the morning, and of enjoying the charms 
of the new season? After all where was the danger? And 
what had he caused me to understand, this young man, 
for whom I should have reason to be alarmed? He finds 
me agreeable to look at: that is possible, said I, in con- 
sulting my little mirror of the toilet. He desires per- 
haps to see me more near; that besides is natural; and 



40 

I perceive nothing but what is obliging in the regret of be- 
ing removed from me. Was it necessary to let him think 
that I was afraid of him ? to avoid him, it would have been 
to fear him, and I did not know why I should have feared 
him. I took courage; and the next day I showed my- 
self, holding in my hand a cage which I placed in my 
window, in occupying myself with the care of giving 
fresh water and chick-weed to my birds. He heard 
their singing, and he was charmed with it; but, with an 
attentive and jealous eye regarding their cage, he ap- 
peared to envy their destiny. How did I see that so 
far? Ah! it is only at the age of sixteen years, to per- 
ceive that which flatters, we have very good eyes! I 
gave myself a distracted and dissipated air; and not a 
shadow of the sentiments which I inspired, escaped me: 
neither his inquietude, nor his impatience, nor his 
imperceptible reproaches when I arrived too late, 
nor his timid actions of favors when I had the kindness 
to occupy myself with him, Oh! nothing was lost; and 
one month passed away in this happy understanding, 
without too much boldness on his part, without too much 
complaisance or rigor on mine. 

One day in fine, the first day of May, the day of my 
fete, for I call myself Philipine, on rising I saw on his win- 
dow the prettiest rosebush and the first, I believe, which 
the spring had caused to bloom. Immediately he came 
to offer it to me with an air so sweet and full of grace, 
that it was impossible for me not to thank him for it. 
The little calendar which he held in his hand, and of 
which he kissed respectfully the leaf, where my name 
was printed, said sufficient that he knew it, this name. 
I was less happy, for 1 did not know his. I inclined my- 
self again to observe him, if he was not deceived, and 
that in effect the day of Saint Philip was my ] etc Then 



41 

I saw him become animated, press his heart with his 
right hand, open it towards me with the gesture of an of- 
fering; and with his left, in sign of an oath, to take heav- 
en as a witness of the gift which he was making me. 
I felt that my heart, within me, beat more strong than 
commonly, that a blush mounted to my cheek, and that 
my eyes could no longer sustain his regards; I covered 
my face with both my hands, and retired. 

I have wondered since, how much quicker mute lan- 
guage goes than speech; for in fine, if Closan had 
spoken to me, he had scarcely dared to pass from turn 
to turn, from the eulogy of my beauty to the declaration 
of the impression which it had made on his soul; and I 
had been often warned never to lend an ear to the deceit- 
ful language of men who should endeavor to flatter me. 
But in the expression of the countenance, how suspect 
deception? How imagine that eyes tender and suppli- 
ant would impose on us? It is the mouth which deceives, 
and ours said nothing. Yet it was very clear that he 
had made me the gift of his heart, that he had engaged 
me his faith; and, if I continued to see him, I seemed to 
engage myself. Alone at my age, and without the con- 
sent of my parents, and without their knowledge, with 
a young stranger who perhaps may trifle with my inno- 
cence! all that troubled me; and I was almost resolved 
to shut my window. A very prudent reflection led me 
back to it. I have, says I, accepted from hini only his 
bouquet; as to his other gifts, I have not refused them, 
but I have not received them. And why should I re- 
fuse them, if they are worthy of me? He is perhaps 
the husband which heaven destines me. If he is made 
for me, let us leave to him the hope of obtaining me and 
the time to demand me. He knows well on whom I de- 
pend. Let me be reserved to him; but, if he finds me 
8 



42 

amiable, let me not pity myself on account of it. Alas! 
I have great need of pleasing. Poor as I am, who 
would espouse me without loving me? It was by these 
reasons that love knew how to reassure me. Ah! how 
dangerous love is, when he feigns to be reasonable! 
With this fine plan of conduct, I yielded myself (o the 
pleasure of seeing him without longer distrusting him, 
or myself. His first care, on awaking, was to come and 
water my bouquet. He breathed its perfume ; he count- 
ed the roses on it, already blown; he caused me to ob- 
serve those which were but half open, and the buds 
which were going soon to unfold themselves; he brood- 
ed over them with his eyes, with the air of voluptious- 
ness; and I smiled at the cares which he took daily to 
embellish the object of his homage; and daily without 
perceiving it myself, I left my eyes to repass more free- 
ly, more often over his, and to repose there longer. One 
day which I forgot to withdraw them from him, I know 
not what sudden emotion they caused him ; but he placed 
his lips on one of my roses, and he blowed towards me 
the kiss which he had given it. You believe indeed, 
that I did not leave this audacity unpunished. I re- 
tired immediately, and V resolved to be eight days 
without shb\fcing myself. Eight days! Ah! my friends, 
what an effort oV courage! 

I must tell all: in rendering myself invisible to his eyes, 
mine had found the secret of seeing him still; and be- 
hind a curtain, but a little open, I observed him. The 
two first days, I saw him water it, according to custom, 
but with a sad and forsaken air, this rose-bush which 
seemed also to wither with languor. After having regar- 
ded it a long time with a dejected eye, and a hundred 
times unhappily turned his eyes towards the inexorable 
window, he went away like a repulsed suppliant. But 



43 

the third day the poor exile sank beneath it. And, af- 
ter having inundated the rose-bush with his tears, after 
having plucked the rose on which his lips had impressed 
the kiss which constituted his crime, he closed his win- 
dow, and I saw him no more. 

In his place, two days after, I saw appear a black 
man, with a cane in his hand, who went and came into 
his chamber. Ah! it is a physician, says I to myself; 
he is sick, and I am the cause of it! Behold me deso- 
late, odious to myself, and accusing myself of injustice 
and cruelty. How remedy the evil which I had doner 
How inform him that I was sensible of it ? I found means 
to do it. 

The black man returned twice a day; I watched the 
moment in which he would be at the window, and, with 
an afflicted air, I made a bow to him. He returned it, 
without knowing who saluted him; and I discovered 
that he returned towards his patient to ask him who I 
was. I wished no more of him. 

The young man dissembled ; but as soon as he was de- 
livered from this witness, he arose, and came to see me 
himself. I found him pale and changed. I discovered 
to him on account of it, I believe, a little too much in- 
quietude. He explained to me his illness in placing 
his hand on his pulse, then on his forehead, then on his 
heart; and then, having regarded the rose-bush with a 
sorrowful eye, he throws himself on his knees, and, ex- 
tending towards me both his hands clasped, he asks of 
me pardon. A rock itself would have been softened. 
Immediately my tears flowed, and he saw me wipe them; 
judge of the excess of his joy! But I made a sign to him 
to go and repose himself; and, to engage him to do it,, 
I withdrew myself. This visit was to him more saluta- 
ry than those of his physician ; for a few days afterwards 
he was convalescent. 



44 

From this moment, he was as timid as he had been 
rash. On my part, I was fearful and diffident; for this 
kiss blown into the air, from one window to another, was 
ever present tome; I had it on my lips, and I did every 
thing in my power to prevent my eyes from being at- 
tracted by him a second time. Should I have so crew- 
elly punished him? it is what neither you nor I know, 
thank heaven. Whatever it might be, my heart was not 
put to this test ; but behold a more dangerous one, and to 
which my rigor yielded. I have told you, that I went out 
little. One beautiful day however my guardians took it 
into their heads to take a promenade to the Cours-la-Re- 
ine. A game at bowls was the only spectacle which my 
tutor sometimes permitted himself. One passes there, 
said he, three hours more agreeably than at the Opera, 
and it costs nothing. Whilst he was amusing himself 
with this innocent pleasure, my aunt and myself follow- 
ed slowly the wearysome, straight path of the alleys, 
when a woman accosts us, holding a little puppy, the 
prettiest in the world, and proposed to me to purchase 
it. I was tempted to do it, and I was about demanding 
the price of it ; my aunt,, at the first word, interrupts the 
bargain and dismisses the trading-woman. It was hard 
to see myself refused even unto the amusement of a lit- 
tle puppy. But poor, as I believed myself to be, I had 
no right to complain because they wished me to render 
myself thrifty with the little money which they gave me. 
I put on patience, and retired sadly. 

But, on returning to my tutor's, what was my surprise 
at seeing, darting from the lodge of the portress my lit- 
tle spaniel, with a collar of rose-colored ribbon, where 
hung a little bell! I take it, I kiss it; and the por- 
tress, to whom my aunt made some questions, answers 
ingeniously that a woman came to bring her this little. 



45 

animal, and told her that it was mine. My aunt scolded 
me, and I left her to believe that I had paid for it se- 
cretly. 

Behold me then at my own home, alone with my litle 
puppy, seeking a name to give it, when in the folds of 
the ribbon of its little collar I perceived a billet. 1 un- 
rolled it, and read these words: I call myself Florette; and 
him, Hippolyte Closan. Ah ! it is him, says I to myself, 
'tis he who, having followed me with his eyes to the 
promenade, and having seen me desire this little puppy, 
without doubt has wished to make me a present of it: I 
was not deceived. I have known since that the only 
louis d'or which he had in his possession, he had em- 
ployed it. This louis d'or was worth a thousand. 

The little billet was enclosed in the golden heart which 
behold. There it is still, it shall never leave me. For 
the little puppy, I leave you to think if it had other bed 
than mine, or other plate than mine. 
All night I dreampt only of finding out some means of 
testifying my gratitude. I was loved, I was sure of it; 
and I did not wish that one should believe me insensi- 
ble to the cares of a love so attentive, so delicate and 
so touching. At dawn, I was at my window. Closan 
did not appear till after myself, andihe saw me holding 
my spaniel against my bosom, and kissing it with an ex- 
treme tenderness. Half content and half sad, he regar- 
ded us in turn, myself first, and then the spaniel, and 
with an air so passionate, so envious of its happiness, 
that, in I know not what inebriation, what absence of 
my reason, I commit a folly. Unfortunately I had in 
my hand my little toilet mirror to finish adjusting my 
hair; well, since 1 must tell it to you, I turned the glass 
towards the young man, and then turning it again to- 
wards myself, I kissed it and fled. Then, with a burn- 



46 

ing face and eyes full of tears, I fell as in an abyss of 
confusion and grief. Behold me, says I, forever en- 
gaged with this young unknown. I am his, I cannot 
deny it. He has seen me kiss his image; after this 
weakness, I am dishonored if I do not have him for a 
husband, and from that time it was decided that I should 
never have another. 

As for him, whilst I was afflicting myself, he was trans- 
ported with joy; and, in exchange for my kiss, he had 
sent me a thousand of them which I had not perceived. 
But I know not what sinister and mischievous eye had 
surprised them; and my aunt was informed of it. 

They held a council in the house; and from that eve- 
ning they made me change my apartment, without tell- 
ing me the cause of it. 1 suspected it, but I obeyed 
without replying a word, for fear of accusing myself. 

When I was alone in my prison, I thought of the as- 
tonishment and affliction in which my young man would 
be, inseeing"me no more appear; and, cruelly watched, 
1 knew no longer to what saint to consecrate myself, to 
cause some consolation to pass to him, when I saw ar- 
rive at my uncle's an officer of finance, which they call- 
ed the protege of the cardinal, the first minister, and who 
demanded me in marriage for his son. It was my young 
clerk himself who had given him the idea of it. 

He was reccommended to him; and, in style of pro- 
tector, the financier had deigned to tell him that, on the 
occasion, he would be very happy to oblige him. Clo- 
san recalled to mind this fine promise: despairing of 
seeing me any more, informed that my tutor was a rich 
miser, persuaded that I was reserved for some rich fa- 
vorite of fortune, and seeing in his study only doubtful 
and slow means of enriching himself, he resolved to take 
the most easy route and least unfruitful of the employ- 



47 

ments of finance; and he went to ask his protector to 
open it to him. The former abusing the facility which 
all suppliants have in relating their troubles, drew from 
him the confidence of the unhappy amour, which caused 
his ambition, wished to know the name of the young per- 
son; and his protege told him all except our understand- 
ing; yet left him to suspect something of it, in avowing 
to him that if he attained some considerable employ- 
ment, he had room to believe that he should not be re- 
fused. 

I will think of you, says M. de Bliancour; come 
again to see me one of these mornings. The young 
man returned penetrated with gratitude, His protect- 
or had in effect the goodness to think of him; but he 
deigned also to think of me. He had heard say that I 
was beautiful; he doubted if I should be rich; it was 
easy to know what property my father had left; an un- 
cle, avaricious and without children, was still an attract- 
ing perspective; he believed to find in me what suited 
his son; and at first, in order to deliver him from an 
inconvenient rival, he sent his protege Closan to make 
in the province his noviciate of financier. Afterwards 
he came to offer for me, to my tutor, the most stupid of 
the children of the rich. 

Judge what difference; I do not speak of the figure: 
God forgive that I compare a dull sketch to the elegance 
even of grace and beauty! But for the mind! ah! in a 
single glance, in a gesture of the young clerk, there 
was more ingenious thoughts and delicate sentiments 
than in all the gallantries of the insipid Bliancour. But 
if he had had the mind of Fontenelle, he would not have 
seduced mine. I refused him clearly; and I said to my 
uncle that at seventeen years one was not pressed to- 
many. He boasted to me much of the fortune of the 



48 

J)retendant; I assured him that with all his opulence, 
this man would never please me. It is necessary then 
that a husband please Mademoiselle? resumed my aunt 
with humor. Oh well, myself, I am tired of being her 
surveillante. She has only to choose marriage or the con- 
vent. I preferred the convent with joy, expecting that 
it would be for me a less close prison. 

But behold indeed sufficient for to-day, says she. I 
have now given you little scenes of comedy; to-mor- 
row the breakfast will be more serious* 



THE SECOND BREAKFAST. 

THE CONVENT AND THE LITTLE WOOD. 

When we had reassembled beneath the arbour, around 
the tea-table, our pretty, little, old lady then resumed: 

Do you believe in the stars? Oh well, I my friends, 
believe in them; I natter myself ever of having one, 
and you will all agree that I have reasons for it. It 
wished then, my star, in order the better to lead me 
astray and bewilder my young man, (for he had tried, 
in order to see me, all the means which love and folly 
invent) my uncle thought to lead me without noise to 
the abbey of Pont anx Dames, where he had relations. 

The abbess gave him her word that I should be inac- 
cessible and invisible to all men; and as much as it de- 
pended on her, I was what she had promised. My un- 
cle had confided to her that I had in my head a little 
grain of amorous folly, of which it was necessary to cure 
me, said he; and love was what one calls the black beast 
of the abbess. I do not know what he had done to her; 
but the unhappy one could not hear the name of it with- 
out shuddering. God may have her soul! She watch- 



49 

*ed me very closely; but this vigilence constrained me in 
nothing, for I had neither the means nor the hope of 
giving information of myself to the only being who oc- 
cupied my mind. 

He will be tired, said I, of calling me with his eyes, 
and, dispairing of seeing me again, he will have forgot- 
ten me. Alas! he has done well. Why can I not also 
forget him. I had carried with me my only consolation, 
the little spaniel which I had of him; and it was her who 
received my complaints. This pleasure was envied me : 
and a few days after my arrival, the abbess signified to 
me that it was necessary to deprive me of her. Neither 
my prayers nor my tears, could bend her, and the whole 
Convent was witness of my desolation. 

My dear little FloretteJ were they going to drown 
her, or abandon her to the passengers? Happily one 
of my companions, sensible to my grief, proposed to me, 
ib 'oMer to mitigate it, to send Florette to her mother, 
and to recommend her to her. She was of Rosay, a 
little neighboring village of the convent; and, when her 
mother should come to see her, she would bring me my 
little spaniel; I should see it again sometimes. This 
was for me an inexpressible relief, and I regard as a 
presage the pleasure which I felt from it. I sent then 
Florette to the mother of my friend. The letter with 
which I accompanied it, would have moved you to pity. 
The abbess herself was affected with it; for we wrote 
nothing which she did not see: such was the law of the 
convent. Mademoiselle de Nuisy, (it was the name of 
the young person) was yet far from knowing what claims 
she had acquired to my gratitude; she did not feel the 
price of this treasure confided to her mother; and, when 
I spoke of Florette in sighing, and with tears in my eyes, 
she laughed at my infancy. She was very happy! she 
9 



50 

had seen nothing from her window, which caused the tor- 
ment of her heart. 

You conceive the state of mine. What had become' 
of this unhappy young man? What did he think of me? 
Did he still think of me? How much was he not to be 
pitied, if he loved me ever! And how much wa3 I not so, 
if he loved me no longer. These ideas pursued me, 
quit me no more in sleeping than in waking; and yet 
the object of my inquietude was only some leagues from 
me. 

The comptroller of the farms at Meaux, believing me 
ever captive at my uncle's, he Was consumed with love, 
ambition, impatience to advance himself, and to have a 
fortune sufficiently honorable to obtain me from my pa- 
rents. 

One day in fine, the duties of his employment having 
called him to Rosay, and finding himself in one of those' 
societies which constitute small villages, he sees on the 
knees of one of the women, who were in the circle, a' 
spaniel wholly resembling that which he had given me. 
The resemblance interests him; he approaches, he ca- 
resses the little spaniel; he makes an elogy on its beau- 
ty, and in caressing it, he recognises the little bell, the 
collar with which he had adorned it. Ah! madam 5 
cried he with emotion, whence have you obtained this 
pretty little puppy. 

Madam de Nuisy asked nothing better than to relate 
its adventure. Alas! says she, it is through pity that 
1 have granted it an asylum. A young person, com- 
panion of my daughter, had brought it to the convent 
where they are together. The rules did not permit her 
to keep it there. The poor child did not know to whom 
to confide it; she was afflicted. My daughter has a 
good heart; she could not behold her in this situation 



51 

without being affected for her; and both of them have 
entreated me to take care of this innocent animal, which, 
without me, would be forsaken. Then, in order to ren- 
der her recital more touching, she caused my two let- 
ters to be read (for I had written her a second, to re- 
turn her thanks for the hospitality which she had indeed 
wished to grant to Florette) and every one was affected 
by it. 

I leave you to imagine the impression which they 
made on my young lover, so sensible proofs of the price 
which 1 attached to the gift that he had made me. In 
feigning to smile at the native sentiments with which 
my letters were filled, he asked to read them himself; 
•and in the excess of his emotion, devouring with his 
eyes these characters traced by my hand, adoring this 
signature, Philippine Oray de Valsan, which he saw for 
the first time, he was dying with the desire to apply to 
it his lips. But this desire was repressed by the fear of 
betraying himself. 

He engaged in an under tone of conversation with 
Madam de Nuisy, spoke to her of her daughter, made 
her tell all that she knew, and all which he wished to 
know of the convent in which I was captive. She made 
an ample elogy on the perfect security with which one 
enjoyed there innocence, on the vigilance of madam the 
abbess, on her extreme severity in interdicting all access, 
every relation as to the exterior; and the result was that 
an exact enclosure, impenetrable walls, grates even in- 
accessible, and inexorable spies seperated me from him: 
sad object of reflection! 

I was there, he was sure of it: but an imprudent and 
failing attempt, be it to write to me, or to see me, was 
about to cause me to be taken from this convent, and re- 
move me from him, without his being able to retrace my 



52 

steps. It was an act of heaven, the nearness of his sit- 
uation to my residence; it was a still more miraculous 
one, the rencounter with the little puppy: but the more 
precious this good fortune was to him, the more difficult 
the management. Before attacking the place, he com- 
menced by reconnoitring its enclosure and all the envi- 
rons. No hope of penetrating it, no hope even of approach- 
ing the parlour. He discovered in fine, that, from the 
neighbouring farms, theyoung village-girls brought, some 
times, to the convent pots of cream, and sometimes flowers 
or fruits, which the boarders purchased at the gate. He 
was fair, 1 have told you so, and had yet on his cheeks 
only that down which is the flower of a beautiful com- 
plexion. He saw nothing more easy, nor more sure to 
do, than to disguise himself as a village-girl, and to come 
with a little hurdle on his head, and a basket under his 
arm full of pinks and roses, to present himself at the par- 
lour of the convent. I repaired there with my compan- 
ions; and, although 1 might not have seen Closan but 
from afar, those blue eyes and those auburn tresses re- 
called to my mind his image. The slightest resemblance 
would have been sufficient to attract my attention; but 
the more I observed him, the more I felt myself moved. 
In fine, whilst my companions darted on the flowers, I 
fixed my eyes on his; and a look of intelligence was for 
me a ray of light. Let me go, Mademoiselle, buy of 
my bouquets, says he to me in a softened voice, be- 
hold one of them which I have made with care. I took 
it, and in paying him, I saw in writing in that hand which 
he extended towards me: It is yours. Never did I ex- 
perience such emotion. The impression which the ac- 
cent of that sensible voice made on my heart, which I 
heard for the first time, the ravishment in which I was, 
on seeing near me these features animated with love 3 



53 

these eyes all sparkling with flame; and at the same 
time the fright that some one of my companions or of 
oar spies might discover what was passing in him and 
myself, in fine, all that which joy has the most lively, 
and fear the most chilling, caused me a shuddering 
which would have betrayed us, if the sound of the clock 
had not abridged the scene. My companions, happily, 
did not think of me. The little hurdle and the basket 
had a prompt sale; they spoke only of the fair girl; and 
I learnt that she had promised to return three days af- 
ter, the eve of the Fete-Dieu; and bring flowers in abun- 
dance to adorn the church and altar. 

Retired in my cell, delivered to my reflections, or, 
the better to express myself, abandoned to the delirium 
of my love, I admired that star which seemed to pre- 
side over our destiny; and rule us both, when on untie- 
ing my bouquet to put it in the water, I discovered, be- 
neath the rush which knotted the flowers, a paper ribbon, 
on which were written these words: " Heaven loves us, 
my dear Philippine; it works prodigies for us. Our 
enemies, believing to seperate us, reunites us. I have 
an employment at Meaux, which is not far from here. 
It was at Rosay that I had learned in what place you 
were concealed. The severity of your abbess, in de- 
priving you of the little puppy which you deign to love, 
seems to have sent him to me to discover your asylum. 
Love has caused me to find the means of seeing you. 
Our hearts are mutually known to each other. We have 
known that we loved each other before being able to say 
so. Let us both assure ourselves of an invariable con- 
stancy. Both orphans, both without fortune, but both 
of respectable birth, that is sufficient. My labor and a 
little time will furnish us a peaceable situation. Hope 
and courage, it is all that is necessary to love. I have 



54 

need of both ; do not refuse me a word which gives them 
to me." And he had signed, Hippolylt Closan. 

What inhuman would have had the power to refuse it 
to him, this word so desired? I endeavored to intermin- 
gle there sentiment and reason. I avowed to him that 
I was touched with the kindness which he still had in 
occupying himself with me; but I accused him of im- 
prudence. I exposed to him the danger of an artifice 
which would render me the story of the convent, if it 
was discovered; and I finished by counselling him, for 
his own repose and mine, to forget an unfortunate, who 
existed only by the benefits of an uncle, her tutor, and 
who ought and wished to depend on him. To speak the 
truth, I hoped that my counsels would not be followed. 

Three days afterwards he reappeared in the midst of 
a company of young village-girls, who came emulously 
to strew with flowers the church of the convent. The 
care of decorating its altar was confided to the boarders, 
and under the eyes of the religieuses, we were occupied 
with the village-girls, half of this happy day, in making 
bouquets, garlands and festoons. 

You behold us here, my young lover and myself, oh 
our knees at the foot of the altar, opposite each other, 
being no longer seperated only by a basket in which we 
made choice of the flowers. Both our hands fluttered 
about without ceasing among these flowers, without dar- 
ing to touch each other. Surrounded by witnesses, in 
my life never have I passed moments more delicious. 
1 had my billet to give; I slipped it under a rose; and 
in an instant it was seized with an admirable address. 
After that I was more tranquil, and I saw him go away 
contented. We were both of us far from foreseeing the 
misfortune which awaited us. 

Envy is found in all situations. Among the village- 



55 

girls, the nosegay-girl of Cressy had too much distin- 
guished herself by the beauty of her offering, and also 
by a certain neat, elegant and noble air, which her com- 
panions did not possess. She was observed with jeal- 
ous eyes; and malignity found in her something singu- 
lar and equivocal. Her form, her air, her deportment, 
and then her features, and then her voice, and then this 
soft down which began to spring forth, all that well ex- 
amined gave rise to suspicions. The most waggish put 
to him questions which he soon eluded in taking leave 
of them; but, in their conversation, his person was de- 
tailed so well, that some bet that the fair one was a dis- 
guised gallant. This rumour passed even into the con- 
vent; the abbess was informed of it; and the alarm 
spread itself there. Judge with what inquiet curiosity 
my companions occupied themselves with it, and what a 
crowd of young imaginations went from conjecture to 
conjecture, I made upon myself unheard of efforts to 
dissemble my fright, and I ranged myself on the side of 
those who found the thing incredible. 

All these young village-girls had promised to return 
la veille de I 9 octave, she of Cressy had engaged herself 
expressly to do so; they expected her, and yet the abbess 
had caused to be taken at Cressy even formidable 
information. I was in dispair at not having some one to 
confide in, in order to make known to Closanthe danger 
which threatened us. 

He returned, as he had promised, with a basket still 
more magnificent, and with an air more deliberate. But 
this day the boarders did not go out of the cloister: the 
tourieres alone received the offerings; and the young 
village-girls were told that madam the abbess would 
thank them in the parlor. They repaired there; and, 
after having made an elogy on their zeal, the abbess. 



56 

dismissed them. I respired, when I learnt that she of 
Cressy was the only one which she had detained, and 
that the abbess interrogated her. 

Whence are you? demanded she of him in the tone 
of a judge. He understood easily that to give him the 
lie, she waited only his reply; and in effect the fair of 
Cressy was found not to be known there. He was ta- 
ken; it was necessary to escape, it was necessary to 
save myself, and if he permitted himself to be assailed 
with questions, he was lost; happily it came into his 
mind to give the abbess the change. 

I was born at Cressy, says he to her, madam; and 
I should be there still, without the misfortune which 
has happened to me there, and which has obliged my 
father and mother to retire to the village of Roise, to 
steal me from the pursuits of a ravisher who wished to 
elope with me. — Elope with you — Oh! my God yes, 
madam, at the age of sixteen years, it was only for me 
to consent to be carried off by a young man of the court 
who came often to Cressy, and who, in order to seduce 
me, employed a thousand stratagems; but thank heaven, 
I have not fallen into the snares of this deceiver. And 
behold him who relates to her the attempts, the attacks, 
the artifices of the young man: as he persued her in 
the gardens, in the groves and with what ardour he 
pressed her to go to be at Paris a women of quality. 

The more he animated his pictures, the more the ab- 
bess attentive, moved, inquiet, was astonished that a 
young innocent should have escaped seduction; and, 
at every new danger, it was alarming news. The un- 
happy! cried she: he was young you say, and he was 
perhaps also of an amiable figure? — Yes madam, he 
was a pretty man, well made, well turned, I agree to it; 
but, although he might be also very mild, very caress- 



57 

ing, I did not trust myself to him, for he had in h<is 
sweetness an air of cunning and malice; his eyes above 
all had something singular: sometimes they were lan- 
guishing, and sometimes they were bold and brilliant 
like two stars. It was then that he said to me the most 
tender and the most inconceivable things. Besides I 
would believe nothing of them. But the more I repeat- 
ed that he was a liar, the more he swore to the contra- 
ry. — Ah! my daughter, it was necessary to fly him. — 
Ah! madam, I did nothing but escape from grove to 
grove; but he knew better than myself all the windings 
of them, and I found him again without ceasing. Some- 
times I was out of breath, and so exhausted that it was 
necessary indeed to repose myself on the turf. — On the 
turf! Then there were complaints and sighs at my 
knees. — At your knees, my daughter! — I endeavored 
to shame him. It becomes well, said I to him, a young 
man of your quality to be at the feet cf a village-girl! 
He replied to me that beauty was the queen of the worjd. 
In fine, in anger, it was necessary to oblige him to rise; 
and I had much trouble besides to disengage myself from 
his hands. The more I repulsed him, the more he 
kissed mine. What audacity! said the abbess. He 
kissed your hands! — And if you had seen, madam, w 7 hat 
looks he darted on me in kissing them! This is not all. 
What then! — Would you believe it, he had one day the 
boldness to slip on my finger a rich diamond ring; but 
myself, throwing it into his face: Go, Sir, says I to him, 
we wear no rings except such as are given to us by our 
husband. — Very well, my daughter! and afterwards, I 
hope so, he has left you in repose? — Alas! No; and I 
had still much trouble to endure. — But, imprudent, you 
delayed indeed, informing your father and mother! — . 
Alas! madam, every time that he had afflicted rue, he> 



58 

entreated me so humbly to say nothing of it, asked of 
me a thousand pardons, and in so suppliant a tone of 
voice, that I was patient for fear of making him an en- 
emy to us. At last however, one day when the wretch 
surprised me gathering strawberries on the border of 
the forest, in the morning, at the time when the birds 
awake — Ah! unhappy, what was you going to do there? 
I have told you, madam, I was going to gather straw- 
berries. But I perceive that it is late, and my mother 
would be in trouble. It is time that I go my way. 
One moment says the abbess, I wish at least to know — 
You shall know all madam: I will return tomorrow, and 
relate you the rest. But if I staid longer, my mother 
would scold, and you do not wish that my mother scold 
me. At these words she made her a humble courtesy, 
and disappeared like lightning. 

What an adventure! said the abbess, and see to what 
innocence is exposed in this world! in truth, I tremble 
still for her; and I am anxious for tomorrow to see how 
she escaped from him. 

The next day, she waited for the fair one with the most 
lively impatience; but the fair one did not return. 

The abbess, then doubting no longer that she was tri- 
fled wiih, conceived a mortal enmity against her. She 
instituted at Roise the same persecutions which she had 
caused to be made at Cressy. The reply of the emis- 
saries was that they had found no trace of this flower- 
girl; that her adventure at the convent was the tale of 
all the neighbouring villages, and they were persuaded 
there that the fair girl was a beau. I was trembling; 
for my companions had heard and informed me all. The 
perfidious! the wretch! said the abbess, he has deceiv- 
ed me, and with his deceptions he has thought to escape 
me; I will catch him again, and I will make him repent 



59 

it. Behold her seeking in her mind who this rogue 
could be, and which of us could have attracted him. 
Soon her mind was fixed on me. She knew that this 
love existed in my heart, of which my uncle had made 
her a confidante. She wrote to him the adventure, and 
gave him the description of this dangerous seducer. My 
uncle, struck with the resemblance, went immediately 
to know of Bliancour where he had placed the young 
clerk. At Meaux, says the financier to him. At Meaux ! 
you have done a fine piece of work! says my uncle. It 
was near Meaux that I had concealed my pupil. He 
has found it out, and has unnestled her; you are about 
to see what has happened; the abbess informs me of it. 

Bliancour, already piqued with the disgrace of his 
son, was still more so at the oversight which they had 
committed, my uncle and himself, without the knowl- 
edge of either, in reproaching me with the prefered ri- 
val; and to deliver himself more surely from his pursuits 
he resolved to have him shut up. The first minister 
was an old prelate who caused others to perform his 
penance for the little faults of his youth; and our ene- 
my had near him more credit than was necessary to 
overwhelm an innocent 

The audacity of the young man who, by the favor of 
& fete , and under the appearance of zeal to decorate 
the altars, had slipped in, disguised as a girl, into a con- 
vent, to surprise there a young orphan, whom he had 
already pursued into the house of her tutor; this audac- 
ity was presented to the cardinal as a criminal profana- 
tion, in the highest degree. The old man was still suf- 
ficiently kind in seeing only libertinage in that which 
the casuists of his council called sacrilege; and a few 
years in Saint Lazarus appeared to him a chastisement 
sufficiently severe for a fault for which he found excuse 



60 

for his amorous recollections. Closan then saw himself 
carried away, and he was conducted to Saint Lazarus. 

The abbess had not yet revealed my secret, and had 
not even testified to me that she was informed of it; but 
in presence of the whole convent, she announced that 
the rash one was punished, and named the house in 
which he was about to be shut up. At the name of 
Saint Lazarus, I grew pale, I shuddered, I saw that all 
eyes were fixed on me, and that my grief betrayed me. 
Well yes, I cried in letting fall my tears, I am the cause 
of it, and there is nothing criminal in the intentions of 
this unfortunate. 

For you, Mademoiselle, you are innocent, I have no 
doubt of it, says the abbess to me; and, the proof that 
I believe it, is that you are still here. But do not pre- 
tend to justify an impious seducer, a sacrilegious profa- 
ner, since you compel me to say in what point he is crim- 
inal. My tears redoubled; and, in spite of the haughti- 
ness which I opposed to my humiliation, I could not 
resist it; I conjured the abbess to obtain from my uncle 
that he would give me another asylum. She promised 
it me: but be it that she hoped to calm me, be it that 
my tutor gave himself leisure to shut me up more closly, 
be it in fine that, to subdue me, he wished to exhaust 
my courage, they left me to sigh and consume myself 
with grief. It was no longer the grate, it was no longer 
the walls of the convent which constrained me; it was 
the walls of Saint Lazarus : I bore on my heart the whole 
weight of the chains and the bolts which enclosed this 
young innocent. It was there that an unjust power 
crushed with rigor him whose only crime was to haver 
loved me too much. I saw him alone, desolate, desper-* 
ate, forcing perhaps, in the access of his grief, hisj 
guardians to exercise over him their inflexible cruelty 



61 

At this picture without Ceasing present to my mind, I 
inundated my bed with my tears, I filled my cell with 
my groans which it was necessary to suppress. My 
prison became to me horrible; I resolved to get out of 
it. I succeeded in it to the peril of my life ; and the 
cords of the gardener, carried off one evening from his 
house, knotted like the steps of a ladder, hung at my 
window, and to the branches of a tree, whose last limbs 
extended themselves beyond the walls, were the dan- 
gerous means which I employed to make my escape. 
But, having escaped this danger, and free at last in the 
campaign, at the peep of dawn, what was about to be- 
come of me? that was the greatest concern. I had 
more than once heard speak in the convent of an old cu^- 
rate of the neighbourhood, the most mild, the most in- 
dulgent, the most officious of men. He was the curate 
of Mareuil. They had shown me his village, and the 
way to it. My design was to go and throw myself at 
his feet, and ask of him an asylum, and confide to him 
the courageous resolution which I had taken; but it was 
necessary, without being perceived, to arrive there, and 
1 had no longer the time. The labor of my escape had 
employed the hours of the night; and; when in fine I 
saw myself free beyond the walls of the convent, the 
dawn of day, shedding its light upon me, caused me to 
be seized with a new terror. The people of the cam- 
paign would see me, denounce my flight; they would 
arrest me, to lead me back to my prison; What shame 
for me! what crime will they not attribute to me for 
having escaped from it! wretched! it was nothing to see 
myself again a captive, I was about to see myself dis- 
honored. My courage abandoned me; 1 burst into 
tears. In weeping, I invoked heaven, I took it as a 
witness of the innocence of my heart; and falling on my 

11 



62 

knees, I recommended to it, a poor orphan reduced to 
the last dispair. 

On offering up my prayer, I observed, on the side of 
Quincy, a little wood very thick, and it came into my 
mind to conceal myself there until the following night. 
I shall find there some water, said I to myself, and I 
will endure hunger. I set off towards the wood; and, 
after having well concealed myself, I respired, seated on 
my little packet, and returning thanks to heaven for hav- 
ing offered me this refuge. Would you believe it? I ex- 
perienced even a little joy in hearing there the singing 
of the birds; and all those ideas of liberty, of love and 
happiness, which their voice awakes in the soul, came 
to plunge mine into a soft reverie! I took pleasure in 
seeing the little young hare and his family, sporting a- 
round me — 

And pay to Aurora their court 
Amidst the thyme and the dew. 

1 did not foresee that this would be to me the cause 
«)f one of the most terrible dangers which at my age one 
could run. 

A game-keeper, his gun under his arm, crosses the plain, 
and advances towards the wood where I was concealed. 
Young and neat, he was going at a step to catch me very 
quick, if I had wished to fly; and I had not the strength. 
Terrified at his approach, I sunk still farther forward 
into the thickness of the foliage, and there I kept my- 
self immovable, without daring to respire. The risk of 
being hit with the mortal lead did not come into my mind; 
the fear of being perceived occupied me entirely. 

The hunter rambled some time around me, and sud- 
denly I saw him aim directly towards the thicKet in 
which I was. He discharged his gun, the lead whistled 
around me; and, in a movement of invincible fright, I 
screamed. Behold me betrayed. 



The guard, almost as terrified as myself in seeing me 5 
cries out, and asks me if he has not wounded me. No, 
thank heaven, says I to him. Yes. truly, thank heaven 
says he to me in reassuring himself. Then he regarded 
me with a surprised and satisfied air. What a loss, says 
he, and what regret, if I had killed so pretty a turtle- 
dove! And what does she do in this wood? Does she ex- 
pect there her young turtle-dove? This familiar tone 
displeased me. You see, says I to him, an orphan whom 
misfortune pursues, and who endeavours to escape it. 
I wait here the night. The night! says he in smiling, 
the night, in a wood, at your age! and whence come 
you? — From a convent where they retained me a cap- 
tive. — And where have you the intention of going? — At 
an old man's who is not far from here, and who will treat 
me as a father. — Who is he, this old man? I am acquain- 
ted with the whole neighbourhood. — Pardon me, that is 
my secret.— Your secret, I divine it, my beautiful child, 
it is love. Hold, these adventures of the convent all 
resemble each other. There is always love in the game. 
Yes, I will wager that you have some lover whom they 
forbid your seeing, and that it is for this you have es- 
caped. Agree to it in good faith. — In finding me here, 
you have a right, says I to him, to imagine all you please ; 
but heaven is my witness that there is nothing but what 
is honorable and innocent in my conduct. 

During this conversation, his eyes were fixed on mine. 
1 was seated, he was standing. His countenance was 
bold; and yet his air and his look had I know not what 
of inquiet and irresolute: he kept silence some time, 
immovable and pensive, both his hands supported on his 
gun; and myself, intimidated with his attention, kept 
silence also. What age are you? asked he — seventeen 
years. — Seventeen years! And you have lost father and 



64 

mother? Alas! yes. — Are you rich? — No. — Myself, I 
am at ease; I am a bachelor, and if you w suited only a 
good husband. — I am obliged to you ; but I have no de- 
sign of disposing thus of myself: I am going for some 
time yet j to retire into another convent. — Pshaw, the 
convent! nothing is so gloomy. Go, mademoiselle, the 
small house of a game-keeper, a good liver, is worth a 
thousand times more, without boasting myself, than, the 
most beautiful convent in the world. And he was go- 
ing to make me a picture of the joyous life which we 
should lead there. 

I abridged the conversation, intreating him to leave 
me and to continue his chase. Myself,says he, leave you 
here alone until night! that is impossible. You are, my 
faith, too pretty to be abandoned. I will not quit you, 
and this evening I will accompany you. No, says I to 
him, you must leave me, or I will go away myself, at the 
risk of being taken and led back again to my prison. — 
You have then indeed fear of me? — No, but I know 
that it is not proper to be here alone with a man. — And 
who will take care of you, if I go away? — Heaven, which 
takes care of innocence. — It will do well; for, as to 
young girls, they are not safe in the woods. And he 
regarded me still with eyes more animated. Leave me 
then, says I to him with earnestness. I have entreated 
it of you, I have conjured you on my knees. Then he 
appeared to take his resolution. Do you wish it? says 
he; let me go, I must obey you. But the journey is 
long; have you provisions? — Alas! no, I have nothing. 
I am going then to leave you the bread and wine of my 
breakfast. I desire it indeed, says I to him, it you will 
permit me to pay you for this good office. I had drawn 
my purse; but he had the nobleness obstinately to re- 
fuse the money which I presented him. I thanked him i 



00 

and, as the last favor, I asked of him silence. Oh! for 
silence, says he in smiling, you must pay me for it; 
and I do not wish less for it than this little heart of gold 
which hangs there on this pretty bosom. I should not 
know how to part with it, says I to him, it is a present 
from my mother. I have however a great desire of it, 
resumed he with sparkling eyes! permit me at least to 
kiss it. And in saying these words, he extended towards 
it his hand. I recoiled with terror. 

On seeing me grow pale, he stopped; and after a mo- 
ment's silence: Mademoiselle, says he to me in a voice 
interrupted and almost extinct, I am young, but I am an 
honorable man; yes, I am so, and wish to be so. Adieu, 
it shall never be me who will abuse the condition in 
which you are. But do not sleep in this wood; no, be- 
lieve me, do not sleep there. I will rove around all the 
adjacent parts until night, to guard you; but it shall be 
at a distance. Adieu, you will see me no more. 

1 have reflected since on the violent situation in which 
I had seen the soul of this young man, the alteration of 
his voice, the fire which animated his countenance; and 
which darted from his eyes; the fixed and devouring re- 
gard, which he kept fastened on the little, golden heart 
which hung on my neck; and I have admired the reso- 
lution with which he withdrew himself from me, in throw- 
ing at my feet his cup and shepherd's scrip. Many he- 
roes would not have perhaps been so magnanimous; and 
I d oubt if the continence of Scipio, of which so much has 
been said, was more worthy of elogy than that of my 
game-keeper. 

I dined on his gifts: and, the fatigue of the night hav- 
ing subjected me to some hours sleep, I yielded myself 
up to it. In fine, night having arrived, I took the route 
of Mareuil. 

12 



66 

We shall arrive there tomorrow; for 1 have made to 
day, says she, a sufficiently long course: I have need 
to repose myself. 



THE THIRD BREAKFAST. 

THE PARSONAGE AND THE HOSPITAL. 

I was trembling at the door of the parsonage, resum- 
ed Madam de Closan, when the breakfast-circle was 
seated in the parlour. Young, fugitive, escaped from 
my convent, should I dare to appear before a venerable 
curate? What would he say of me? and what could I 
say to him of myself? The simple truth. This word re- 
assured me. I knocked- An old woman came to open 
the door: What do you ask? says she to me. — I wish to 
speak to Monsieur the curate. — At this hour? — At this 
hour even. They told me that for him there was no un- 
due time, when the unhappy had recourse to him. They 
have told you the truth, resumed she. Immediately I 
was introduced. 

The curate received me with surprise, but with his 
air of kindness. Sir, says I to him, begin, I entreat you, 
by desiring this female to tell no one that I am in your 
house. He recalled his house-keeper, speaks to her two 
words very low, and returned to assure me that I might 
be tranquil. 

Monsieur, resumed I then, protect me. lam an or- 
phan unhappy in the extreme. If you abandon me, I 
have no longer the courage to support life. It is the 
reputation of your virtues and ofyour indulgence which 
leads to your feet Philippine Oray de Valsan. 

The resolution of dispair which he saw depicted in 
my countenance moved him profoundly. He commenc- 
ed by calming me, promises me every kind attention: 



67 

and afterwards he asked me where I belonged. — At 
Paris. — whence I came? — From Pont-aux-Dames. — 
Why I had escaped from this convent?— To pass into 
another, as holy, and more agreeable to my desires. 
It was there that I expatiated. I wish, says I to him, 
to devote myself to the service of the unhappy: my sit- 
uation teaches me that there is nothing more sacred in 
the world. I am poor, but 1 am proud, and I wish to be 
free. There is an order which the most virtuous, the 
most sympathetic of men, a man whom you resemble, 
Vincent de Paul, has instituted for the relief of the poor; 
it is the order of the Soeurs-Grises. I have never heard 
them spoken of without commiseration and veneration. 

I know nothing more noble than the devotedness of 
these females; it is among them that I wish to conceal 
myself; and for that, Sir, I have need of your assistance. 
Do a good deed in deigning to recommend me there, I 
dare not ask, to present me there yourself. 

He did not wish to fatigue me to tell him more; and 
after having made me take a little nourishment, he sent 
me to repose myself. The next day, I related to him a 
part of what you are about to hear, but with a sensibility y 
a naivete which no longer suits my age, and which in- 
terested him. 

He had regarded me with pity in listening to me; and 
when I had finished: At present, says he to me, do you 
wish that I should explain to you your vocation? The 
young man is at Saint Lazarus, and you wish yourself 
to be nearer to him. Nothing is more true, says I to 
him; my most pleasing hope would be to let him know- 
that I am there. I shall be there all the time of his deten- 
tion ; I will employ it, this time, to merit, by kind deeds, 
being a happy wife and a happy mother; and, when he 
shall be free, I shall be so myself; for, agreeable to the 



68 

rule of the good Vincent de Paul, one is engaged only 
for a year. In fine, if I can be united to my lover, God 
will permit that I ask of him at the altar this recompense 
for the cares which I shall have taken of my poor pa- 
tients. If on the contrary they take from us all hope of 
being united, the condition which I shall have embraced, 
will be my consolation. 

This manner of charming the ennui of absence by no 
means displeased the curate ofMareuil. 

But why says he to me, not signify to your relations 
this laudable resolution? They would treat it as a folly, 
an amorous vexation, says I to him; they would have 
him punished who is the cause of it, and they would be 
besides very cruel to envy us the pleasure of knowing 
ourselves to-be near each other. 1 have told you, they 
regard only gold; and the crime of my lover is to have 
none. Take me from their hands or I answer no more 
in relation to myself. 

My child, says he to me, if you had a father and a 
mother, all the pity with which your situation inspires 
me, would not dispense me from restoring you to their 
hands: you are an orphan, and the rights of a tutor are 
not, I avow it, so sacred to me. What I am going to 
do for you does not permit to be imprudent; and, al- 
though my age and character give my conduct sufficient 
gravity, I feel that I expose myself to a malignant cen- 
sure: But less prudence and more kindness has ever been 
my devise; and the courage of doing well is not courage 
for nothing. You ask the most sacred asylum, you wish 
to embrace the most virtuous situation; I shall second 
this pious and courageous design. Remain here con- 
cealed. When I shall believe that they have ceased 
enquiry and pursuit, I will lead you to the novitiate of 
the heroines of Charity, and I will present you there my- 
self. 



69 

In effect, a few days after, I was received there un- 
der its auspices, as an orphan of whom heaven had, said 
he, committed to him the care. 

Behold me then a nun, a iew paces from my lover. 
But this relation of one house to the other, with which 
my hope was flattered, was severely and absolutely in- 
terdicted; and the time of my noviciate, wholly occu- 
pied, from minute to minute, with the sacred functions 
of my new state, did not permit me an instant's relaxa-, 
tion and liberty. My only and sad consolation was to. 
look near the walls where groaned the only object of my 
thoughts. 

But the good curate of Mareuil had not forgotten us. 

The rumor of my escape, which had filled the neighs 
bourhood, having rendered little Florette celebrated, 
had recoiled on this innocent animal. Madam de Nuisy 
haughtily disavawed me : My daughter was by no means 
connected, said she, with this young person; it is only 
through pity that we have had the complaisance to take 
care of her little puppy; and to have nothing which may 
come from her, I will give it to any one who wishes it. 
Give it to me, says the good curate, who fortunately 
happened to be there; and he was also its refuge. But 
this was the least of the services which he rendered us. 

The diocess of Meaux is connected with the diocess 
of Paris; and in the former, my venerable old man had 
for a friend, a curate of his own character. Shall you 
not be this lent, at the retirement of Saint Lazarus, 
asked he of this curate? If you are, remember a young 
man called Ciosan, who, for an imprudence of which 
they have made a crime, is captive in that house, Speak 
well of him, endeavor to mitigate, and abridge his pun- 
ishment; see that they do not change his disposition, 
for I answer that he is of respectable birth; and inform, 



70 

him, if it is possible, that he will find a comforter, afriend 
in the old curate of Mareuil. 

These words faithfully expressed to the principal of 
Saint Lazarus made an impression so much the more 
favorable, as they came from an old man known and rev- 
ered for the sanctity of his manners, and as the young 
man himself in his prison had rendered himself inter- 
esting. 

The principal caused him to be called, asked him if 
he was a relation of the curate of Mareuil. He replied 
that he had not the honor of knowing him. You have 
however, says the lazarist to him, a true friend in this 
venerable pastor. Afterwards he made him recite our' 
little romance; and Closan was as sincere as was per- 
mitted him to be so. The pious lazarist thought it 
would be well to inform the Cardinal of it; and this min- 
ister, who did not abhor amorous stories, listened to this 
with some interest. Well says he to the principal, some 
months of correction is sufficient for a folly of youth. 
At this age one is so frail! We recollect it, my father, 
you and myself. Closan was set at liberty. 

His first care, as you will imagine, was to go and re- 
turn thanks to his liberator, and to know of him what 
had passed in the convent since his absence. On en- 
tering into the parsonage, the first object which presen- 
ted itself to his view, was Florette. Ah! you will ever 
be for me a good omen, cried he, and he was holding it 
in his hands, when the curate came to him. 

Generous old man, says he to him, you to whom I 
owe liberty, and perhaps more than life, you whose 
kindness extends itself even to this little puppy, you 
will tell me, without doubt, news of its mistress, and if 
she is yet a prisoner in the convent of the Pont-aux- 
Dames? She is there no longer, says the good curate 



71 

to him. — Her tutor then has taken her out to shut her 
up somewhere else? — No } she is free; she is no longer 
in his power; she is in safety. — You overwhelm me 
with joy. And what is her asylum? — It is what I have 
not time to tell you; first I must know what you are 
about to do. — Alas! and do I know myself? I have lost 
my employment; and he who gave it me, will he deign 
still, after my imprudence, to interest himself in me? 
I am going to find him again, for there is my only hope. 
But in mercy, complete your kindness, by informing 
me where all that which I love respires. — She is well; 
she expects you. If you knew more, you would com- 
mit new follies* It is to which, if you please, I do not 
wish to contribute. You are young, you have courage 
and talents; procure yourself a situation in which you 
may live decently, and with people of respectability; 
then she is yours. It is all I can tell you; and that~said, 
my dear pupil, repose yourself, and let us dine gaily. 

Closan, the same evening, wished to return to Paris, 
to solicit an employment; and, in taking leave of his 
generous benefactor, he recommended to him Florette. 
Yes, as long as I live, I will take care of her, says the 
curate; and, if I die, I will see that she stijl be taken 
care of well. If you die, I will live no longer, says Clo- 
san to him -for you will have carried away the secret to 
which my life is attached. Truly, says the curate, you 
make me think of it: I was going to be cruel in mak- 
ing you run this risk; but I will guarantee you against it. 
Having left him alone then some minutes, and returning 
to him with a billet concealed: Your secret is in there, 
says he to him; this billet, if I happen to die, will inform 
you of the"place in which she is concealed, Philippine 
Oray de Valsan. But I exact your word that the billet 
shall not be opened until after my death. At present if 



7i 

is for you to see if you feel the force of being the depos- 
itory of it; or if you prefer rather that it should be, as I 
promise it, committed to the hands of the notary whom 
you shall name to me. Choose: I confide it to you, if 
you answer for yourself. 

best of men, says Closan to him in throwing himself 
on his knees* you do my probity an honor of which I 
feel the value, and I dare believe worthy of it. But at 
my age, when the heart is full of a violent passion, there 
would be temerity in presuming too much on my own 
strength. There are situations in which one is no lon- 
ger master of himself. This billet you say will cause 
me to find again Philippine Oray de Valsan; but I must 
not open it until you are no more. Well! I do not wish 
to confide it to myself. You have the nobleness to of- 
fer me the charge of it; I have that of refusing it. Let 
it be committed to the hands of the notary with whom I 
have been employed; and he named him to him. It 
was then that the good curate applauded himself with 
joy for what he had done for him. 

1 have no need to tell you with what rigor Closan 
was received bv the ferocious Bliancour. He deigned 
to see him only to declare to him that he would do noth- 
ing more for him; and his door was shut to him. Yet 
he had manifested in his employment, zeal and intelli- 
gence, the bureaux by which he was known obtained 
that he should be established, but he was badly so and 
as distant as possible, on the confines of Savoy, in the 
mountnins of the Dauphine. This moderate and painful 
employment was scarcely sufficient for the necessities 
of an obscure and solitary life; and he would never 
have thought to offer me so severe a situation: but this 
ruling star, in which I have so much faith, followed us, 
him on his mountains, and myself in the pilgrimage which 
they prescribed to me on issuing from my noviciate. 



73 

It Was by the Scenrs-Grises that the hospital of Em- 
brun was served: and it was there that they had sent 
me. Still young, my superintendants gave me there 
only the most modest duties to fulfill. For example, 
one of my cares was to prepare the salutary drinks and 
carry them to the patients, being well understood that 
in presenting them, I had a veil over the eyes. 

One day as I was approaching the bed of a young man 
oppressed, consumed with an ardent fever. — Do you 
start? Oh! yes, it was the same, himself; for I do not 
wish to surprise you: chagrin, fatigue, long wakeful- 
ness, had inflamed his blood; and too ill at ease, too 
much forsaken at home, to remain there in this situation, 
the unfortunate had recourse to our cares; he had taken 
in the hospital, a particular chamber, as honest citizens 
frequently did. One day when I presented myself, 
with a cup in my hand and my veil lowered, I saw him 
turn aside his head, and with his arm he pushed away 
languishingly the cup which I presented him. It is nec- 
essary, says I to him, to try to overcome this repugnance: 
a moment of disgust is nothing to the price of health 
which this beverage can restore to you: a little courage. 
Ah! says he, I have the courage to die and I have need 
of no other. Leave me. I had heard his voice only 
twice or three times in my life, and yet, although en- 
feebled, although altered by pain, it made on me an im- 
pression, but a confused impression. He would have 
been able to recall to mind, mine, although he might 
have scarcely heard it; but, for him as well as for my- 
self, the improbability removed too far the idea of the 
truth. This was then only by a sentiment of humanity 
that I said to him: Sir, in the name of that which is most 
dear to you in the world, do not refuse me. That which 
t have most dear in the world, says he to me, is lost to 
13 



74 

me; I shall see her no more; or if I see her again, it 
will be in the arms of another. Leave me, leave me 
to die. 

At these words, I felt my emotion redouble, but with- 
out yet daring to hope that which I should have so much 
desired; and, with a voice almost as extinct as his: Why, 
says I to him, do you wish to believe that she is ravish- 
ed from you? Perhaps at the moment even that you 
wish to die for her, she dares hope of seeing you again 
and of living for you. 

Consoling angel, says he to me in turning his head 
again towards me, it is then little, the wishing to recall 
me to life, you essay besides to recall me to happiness! 
It is here that it is impossible for me to give you the i- 
dea of what I experienced in finding again my only bles- 
sing, and in finding him again in this bed of sorrow. 

My first movement would have been to raise my veil. 
But in the state of feebleness in which I saw him, the 
commotion of a surprise so sudden might have deprived 
him of life. I restrained myself, and this effort which 
J made on myself was so violent, that 1 was overwhelm- 
ed by it. My knees sunk under me, the cup trembled 
in my hand. Happily my superintendant, sister The- 
rese, on approaching us, restored to me my courage 
She represented to the patient that this beverage was 
necessary to him ; and myself, resuming my spirits: Do 
it, Sir, says I to him, at least for the love of her. Ah! 
for the love of her, says he, what would I not do. At 
these words he seized the cup, and drank it at a single 
drought without any sign of disgust. 

My companion was pleased with the mildness with 
which I spoke to the patients: it is by the sensibility that 
one manifests to them, says she to me, that one begins to 
assuage them: it is the soul very often that it is neces- 



75 

sary to cure as the sickest, above all at the age in which 
this one is. 

I believed to behold in this rencounter the most evi- 
dent mark of the favor of heaven; and, as soon as I was 
alone, I rendered thanks on my knees, with the effusion 
of a heart penetrated with gratitude. But what was 
most sweet to me, was to foresee to what degree Closan 
would be affected with the virtuous means which I had 
taken to remain faithful to him, and to preserve myself 
for him. 

Sister Therese having remarked with what docility 
the patient obeyed me, left me to take care of him, but 
ever under her eyes and as an assiduous inspector. Ah! 
it was not this time that my employment was meritori- 
ous. And what duty, great God! had been preferable 
to that of watching near the bed of my lover? 

At the second potion which I presented him: Is this 
besides, says he to me, for the love of her? — Yes, it is 
for the love of her again.— Ah! at least, if she knew it! 
If she knew that it is the chagrin of being seperated 
from her which devours me, and which has placed me 
in the state in which I am! My sister, in expiring, I 
will name her to you; you will go visit a good curate 
by whom she is known, and let him inform her that I died 
adoring her. What was my virtue! or rather what was 
the strength which the fear of causing him to expire if 
I unveiled myself gave me! I had that inconceivable 
strength. No, you shall by no means die, says I to 
him. But some day she shall know all which you have 
suffered, and her heart shall have an account of it from 
yourself. She will know with pleasure above all, the 
care which you shall have permitted us to take of the 
days which are consecrated to her. Yes, says he, con- 
secrated even to the last sigh; and he extended his hand 
to receive the cup. 



76 

But, whilst I was leaning to present it to him, my veil 
withdrawing itself from my face, permitted him to have 
a glimpse in the shadow; and he with a sudden move- 
ment, finished removing it, this veil which betrayed me, 
God! great God! it is her! At these words 1 believed 
to see him expire beneath my eyes. In my turn, I ut- 
tered a shriek. My companion ran to me, and found 
us, he swooned with feeblenees, and myself pale and 
chilled, extended at the foot of his bed. 

The first care of sister Therese, was to reanimate her 
patient; afterwards she aided me to recover from this 
swoon, which she reproached me with, as an excess of 
feebleness, unworthy of a situation in which it was nec- 
essary, say she, to familiarize one's self to pain and 
death. 

In fine, Closan was restored to life ; his eyes reopened 
on me. Powers of heaven! what a look! No, I shall 
never forget it He expressed the rapture of a soul 
which would have wished, to pass into my bosom, to de- 
tach itself from this fainting body which it scarcely an- 
imated. He was some moments without recovering the 
use of speech ; and as soon as he was able to speak : Re- 
assure yourself, says he to sister Therese; it is a crisis 
which I have just experienced, and I feel that it is salu- 
tary. These words restored me to life. But after this 
swoon, sister Therese and the phisician believed that he 
ought not to be exposed to the danger of such an acci- 
dent, without having forearmed him with spiritual aid; 
and it was announced to him. 

He received the advice with serenity. It is an au- 
gust ceremony, says he to us, you will assist in it, my 
sisters: your cares are to me so soft, so precious! 
We promised him, both, to keep by his side; and his 
eyes, in returning us thanks, anticipated me confused- 
ly in what was about tp take place. 



79 

would be tardy and would remedy nothing. Your pu- 
pii is innocent, and nothing is more pure than her heart* 
The young man is more than innocent, he is virtuous. 
Their love is already without spot before God; and, 
when it shall please you, it will be so before man. — 
Attach no blame to that which the most tender piety 
has sanctified. 

I have told you so, my uncle was devout. Sir, says 
he to the curate, I have fulfilled my duties as tutor, I 
have fulfilled them as an honest man; and what I have 
done to save my pupil from her aberrations, I believe it 
irreprehensible. As for her, I cannot look at her with 
the same eyes as yourself; pardon my sincerity. You 
think a young person innocent who, at the age of seven- 
teen years, escapes from the convent in which her re- 
lations have placed her, and runs after a lover? Your 
moral is not severe. You think it well that, without 
the consent of her tutor, she engages her faith; and 
this engagement appears to you sacred. I humble my- 
self before you: your station and your white hairs im- 
pose on me silence, and command of me respect. 

Sir, replied the good curate to him in smiling, I 
shall by no means establish as a maxim mj indulgence. 
I am severe when I ought to be so. But to all rules, 
even to the most inflexible, it is necessary to reserve 
some exceptions, and this is one of them. Your neice 
has escaped from a convent, to go and take, in a hospital 
still more holy, the habit and condition of a S&m Grise. 
It is ne^r the bed of the sick that she has passed three 
of her most beautiful years; it is in the recess of the 
Dauphine, occupied in serving the poor, that she has 
found again tier lover on tjie brink of the grave. The 
unhappy one hasrecognisedher, and believing himself at 
his last hour, in presence of the living God, he has giv- 



80 

en her his faith. It is thus that she has received him; 
and it is what you and myself ought to call religious 
and holy. 

My tutor confounded, then took the tone of excuse. 
I have wished, says he, I avow it, to procure for my 
niece an advantageous marriage. But in fine, since she 
prefers a foolish love to all other blessings, and there is 
nothing wanting to complete her happiness but my con- 
sent, I give it to her. It is all which she asks of you, 
resumed the curate: poverty, of which so many have 
fear, by no means terrifies her: they will both have 
either the courage to overcome, or the patience to bear 
it: a Sceur Grise ought to know how to be poor. No, 
Monsieur curate, says my uncle with a sigh — No, she 
is by no means poor. I am going to restore to her, her 
property. What do you call her property? says the cu- 
rate. Has she some? Yes, she has! resumed my uncle 
with grief. She has a hundred thousand crowns ready 
money, of which the third part hag been the product 
of the labor of her poor father. The rest is the fruit of 
the savings which I have practised for her twelve years. 
Behold cares well employed! One hundred thousand 
crowns! says the curate with astonishment. Alas! yes, 
says my uncle even more afflicted. One hundred thou^ 
sand crowns in gold! Judge, Sir, what a marriage she 
would have made if she had taken my advice, and what 
regret this must be to me to give her to a young man 
who has nothing. But she has wished it, the unhappy 
one! Let heaven be praised, and let her come to re- 
ceive it, this inheritance: it is hers; I have faithfully 
preserved it for her. 

The curate, who has since related to us this scene, 
could not help smiling in recalling to mind the desola- 
tion of my uncle, and the contrast of his sighs with the 



77 

This religious duty having been piously fulfilled, the 
patient, addressing his speech to the priest who was a- 
bout to draw upon him the attention of heaven: Sir, says 
he to him this moment, the most precious of my life, ought 
to be marked by my most sacred, my most solemn en- 
gagements. Deign to receive them. I swear before God, 
whose majesty surrounds me, that I wish to live only to 
sanctify at the altar the love with which lam consumed; 
I swear to her who is the object of it, to respire only for 
her, and, if she consents to it, to be united to her, even 
unto the tomb. My sister, Added be in holding me by 
the hand, do you wish indeed to receive it for her, this 
faith which I engage to her perhaps at my last moment? 
My companion, who believe 1 to see the commencement 
of a delirium, tells me to give him my hand, and not to 
counteract him; and all made signs that it was the pre- 
lude of a violent access. Sir, says he to the priest, you 
have understood me. Whether I live or die, I come 
in the presence of heaven, in the presence of sacred 
things, I come to take for wife, Philippine Oray de Val- 
san; and the audience is my witness that she accepts me 
for a husband. 

The name of Valsan, which my father had taken, was 
not known by the Sceurs-Grises; but my true name, the 
name of Oray, like that of Philippine, was known: The- 
rese was struck with it. O heaven! says she to me, 
quite low, it is you whom he has named! I kept silent 
whilst we had witnesses; but when we were alone: 
What do you wish? says [ to her; heaven leads me hereto 
find, on the border of the tomb, the lorer whom I be- 
lieved to have lost: was it necessary to give him death? 
was it necessary to refuse to restore to him life ? My 
sister, do not betray me. If he should die, I devote my- 
self to the service of the poor, and I will live only for 
14 



78 

them. But if we can save him, permit what heaven wish- 
es, since by a prodigy, it has reunited us. We saw him 
again the same evening. I told him that Therese was 
m our confidence, and that she would respect the sanc- 
tity of our engagements; that I was going to instruct 
our good curate of Mareuil of it, and intreat him to ob- 
tain of my uncle that he himself would consent to it. 
This was the true balm which, flowing in his veins, 
healed the wounds of his heart, appeased the ardor of 
his fever, and led him back insensibly to life and health. 
Even until his convalescence, my companion, as a 
third with us, was witness of the courage with which 
this good young man, who believed me as poor as him- 
self, promised to overcome misfortune by his labor and 
constancy, in asking of me a thousand and a thousand 
times pardon for not having treasures to offer me Ah! 
that was one, his heart. 

He was not yet re-established, when the curate of 
Mareuil having recived my letter, repaired to Paris, to 
the house of my tutor, introduced himself to him, and, 
with the eloquence of reason and kindness, having dis- 
posed him to hear him: Sir, added he, it is not a vain 
opinion, that some marriages are beforehand written in 
heaven; and of this number was that of our niece, with 
this young man whom you have so severely, so unjustly 
pursued. In spite of yourself, and without their knowl- 
edge, what they call destiny, and what I call Providence, 
has, without ceasing, led them one towards the other: 
in fine, by all which is most holy, most inviolable, they 
are engaged to each other. They ask of you your con- 
sent. 

Where then is this fool? demanded my uncle. Where 
is this ravisher? Leave invective, says the pastor, it is 
unjust; and, when even it should be more merited, it 



81 

joy which it caused him. Console yourself, Sir, says 
he to him, with the fortune of your niece; she will make 
a good use of it. She will by no means forget the vow 
which she has made of being the sister of the poor, and 
the succour of the unfortunate. He demanded quickly 
of my superiors to recall me to Paris, where great in-, 
terests required my presence. At the same time he 
wrote to our young convalescent to come and find him 
as soon as he should be re-established. 

Closan arrived alone, I followed him soon, and the 
year of my vows passed away, leaving me free. The 
curate came to take me, and led me to the house of my 
tutor. We found him softened. His neighbor, the no- 
tary, had made to him the most consoling elogy of his 
clerk. It was still by the curate of Mareuil that this 
good office was performed to us ; for in depositing the bil- 
of which I have spoken, in the hands of the notary % 
he had informed himself of the conduct, of the charac- 
ter, and of the manners of this young man; and, having 
learned nothing which might be unfavorable, he had 
entreated the notary to employ his cares in destroying 
the prejudices of my tutor. 

It was by this same notary that his pupil v/as present- 
ed; and it was he who, under the eyes of my uncle and 
of the good curate, directed the act of my happiness. — 
My uncle there assured me his inheritance; and prom- 
ised me to dissipate none of it: he has kept his word ta 
me. I do not wish to forget saying that Florette was 
one of the witnesses to the contract. 

The curate had concealed from both of us the secret 
of our fortunes. But both of us knew the secret of our 
hearts; and that would have been sufficient for us. The 
other, it is necessary to avow it, added to it however some- 
thing. Ah! cried Closan, when he heard announced the 



82 

hundred thousand crowns inheritance, she will then have 
every thing to her wishes! But [ shall be much more 
happy, much more illustrious than her; for she will owe 
me nothing, and myself I am going to owe her every 
thing. I by no means admit, says I to him, this afflict- 
ing difference. We have married ourselves poor; there 
falls from heaven a shower of gold, we gather it to- 
gether: behold us both rich! 

Thus was formed this tie. Three children happily 
born have been the fruits of it: they have inherited from 
their father; and, when my ashes shall be mingled with 
his, they shall have what he has left me. What he has 
left me, my friends, is the estate on which we are. As 
soon as my husband had acquired it, he called there the 
game-keeper of the little wood. He established him 
there; and, surrounded by his children, this brave man 
has grown old near us, with us: he still lives; you have 
seen him; it is this house-keeper with white hairs; his 
children occupy my farms. 

The abbess was informed of my marriage ; she blesses 
heaven for it. Mademoiselle de Nuisy married after 
myself, and was my intimate friend. My sons have 
married her daughters: the good curate, who in his old 
age, had cometo repo se himself near me, will bless them 
before dying. They have fulfilled their vows and mine; 
they are happy together. May they be so as long a 
time as we have been! It is all I wish them. But let 
them guard themselves well from shutting up their chil- 
dren! for love which comes in at the door is less dan-* 
gerous than that which enters by the window. 



83 



THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS. 

BY MAHMONTEL. 

[Translated from the French.] 

In the mountains of Savoy, not far from the route of Briancon io 
Modane, is a solitary valley, whose aspect inspires travellers with &. 
pleasing melancholly. Three hills, in the form of an amphitheatre, 
where are scattered from distance to distance, certain cabins of shep- 
herds, torrents which fall from the mountains, groves of trees planted 
here and there, pastures ever verdant, constitute the ornaments of this 
rural place. 

The marchioness of Fonrose was returning from France to Italy with 
her husband. The axle-tree of their carriage broke, and as the day 
Was on its decline, it was necessary to seek in this valley an asylum to 
pass the night. As they advanced towards one of the cottages which 
they had perceived, they saw a flock Which was taking the same route 
conducted by a shepherdess whose gait astonished them. They still 
approach, and hear a celestial voice, whose plaintive and touching ac- 
cents caused the echoes to sigh. 

" With what a mild light shines the setting sun! J Tis thus, (said 
she,) that at the term of a painful career, the soul exhausted goes to 
re-unite itself in the pure source of immortality. But, alas! how dis- 
tant is the term, and how slow is life!' 5 In uttering these words, the 
shepherdess withdrew, her head inclined, but the negligence of her at- 
titude seemed to give still to her form and movement more nobleness 
and majesty. 

Struck with what they saw, and still more with what they heard, 
the marquis and marchioness of Fonrose hastened their step to over- 
take this shepherdess whom they admired. But what was their sur- 
prise, when, under the most simple coif, the most humble dress, they 
beheld all the beauties reunited! My daughter, says the marchioness 
to her, in seeing that she avoided them, fear nothing; we are travellers 
whom an accident compels to seek among these cabins a refuge until 
day: will you be so kind as to serve us as a guide? I pity you, mad- 
am, says the sherpherdess to her in casting down her eyes and blush- 
ing; these cabins are tenanted by the unhappy, and you will be ill- 
lodged. You lodge there without doubt yourself; resumed the mar- 
chioness, and I can well endure the inconveniences which you suffer 
always. I am made for that, gays the shepherdess with a charming 
modesty. No, certainly, says M. de Fonrose, who could no longer 
dissemble the emotion which she had caused him; no, you are not 
made to suffer, and fortune is very unjust! Is it possible, amiable per- 
son, that so many charms should be buried in this desert, beneath these 
habits! Fortune, sir, resumed Adelaide, (this was the name of the 
shepherdess,) fortune is cruel only when she takes away what she has 
given us. My condition has its sweets for a person who knows nc 
other; and habit creates for you necessities which shepherds do not ex- 



84 

perience. That may be, Says the marquis, for those whom heaven has 
created in this obscure condition; but you, wonderful girl, you whom 
I admire, you who enchant me, you were not born what you are: this 
air, this carriage, this voice, this language, all betrays you. Two 
Words which you have just spoken, announce a mind cultivated, a no- 
ble soul. Finish — inform us what misfortune has been able to reduce 
you to this strange abasement. For a man in misfortune, replied Ade- 
laide, there are a thousand means of issuing from it; for a woman, you 
know it, there is no honest resource but servitude; and in the choice of 
masters, we do well, I believe, to prefer honest people. You are go- 
ing to see mine: you will be charmed with the innocence of their life, 
with the candor, with the simplicity, with the honesty of their manners. 
As she was thus speaking, they arrived at the cabin. It was separ- 
ated by a division of the sheep-cote where the unknown caused her 
sheep to enter, counting them with the most careful attention, without 
deigning to oecupy herself longer with the strangers who contemplated 
her. An old man and his wife, such as they paint to us Philemon and 
Baucis, presented themselves before their hosts with that rustic simpli- 
city which recalls to us the age of gold. We have nothing to offer 
you, says the good woman, but some fresh straw for a bed, milk, fruit 
and bread of rye for food; but the little which heaven bestows on us, 
we will share it with you with a good heart. The travellers, on en- 
tering into the cabin, were surprised with the air of arrangement which 
every thing breathed there. The table was of a single board of pol- 
ished walnut; one saw himself in the enamel of the vases of earth des- 
tined for the milk. Every thing presented the image of a smiling pov- 
erty, and of the first wants of nature agreeably satisfied. This is our 
beloved daughter, says the good woman, who takes care of the house- 
hold. In the morning, before her flock leaves for the campaign, and 
whilst it begins to graze on the grass covered With dew around the 
house, she washes, sweeps, arranges every thing with an address which 
enchants us. What! says the marchioness, is this shepherdess your 
daughter? Ah! madam, please heaven! cried the good old woman, 
'tis my heart which calls her so, since I have for her the love of a mo- 
ther; but I am not so happy as to have carried her in my bosom; we 
;ire noteworthy of having given her birth. — Who is she then! whence 
does she come, and what misfortune has reduced her to the condition 
of a shepherdess? All this is unknown to us. It is four years since she 
came, in the dress of a peasant girl, to offer herself to guard our flocks: 
we should have taken her for nothing, so much did her fine mien and 
the mildness of her speech gain both our hearts. We ourselves doubted 
that she was a peasant girl, but our questions afflicted her and we be- 
lieved it our duty to abstain from them. This doubt has only increased 
from a more intimate knowledge of her heart: but the more we wish 
to abase ourselves before her, the more she humbles herself before us. 
Never has a daughter had for her father and mother more sustained at- 
tention, nor more tender solicitude. She cannot obey us for we have 
no desire to command her: but it seems that she divines us; and all 
which we can wish is done before we perceive that she thinks 
of it. She is an angel descended among us to console our old age.*— 



85 

And what does she really do in the sheep-cot? demanded the marchion- 
ess. She gives the flock fresh litter, she milks the sheep and the goats. 
It seems that this milk, pressed by her hand, becomes more delicate: I, 
who go to sell to the city, cannot satisfy the demand; they find it de- 
licious. This dear child occupies herself in guarding her flock, with 
braiding straw and osier which all the world admires. I wish you 
could see with what address she interlaces the flexible rush. Every 
thing becomes valuable in her fingers. You see, madam, pursued the 
good old woman, you see here the image of an easy and tranquil life; 
it is she who procures it for us. This celestial daughter is occupied 
only in rendering us happy. Is she happy herself] demanded M. de 
Fonrose. She endeavors to persuade us so, resumed the old man: but 
I have often discovered to my wife, that in returning from the pasture, 
she had her eyes wet with tears, and the most afflicted air in the world. 
As soon as she sees us, she affects to smile, but we perceive clearly 
that she has some pain which consumes her: we dare not ask it of her. 
Ah! madam, says the old woman, how I pity this child, when she 
persists in leading her flocks to graze, in spite of the rain and frost! A 
hundred times have I knelt to obtain permission to take her place: but 
entreaty has been useless. She departs at the rising of the sun, and 
returns in the evening, chilled with cold. Judge, says she to me with 
tenderness, if I shall let you leave your fire-place, and expose you, at 
your age, to the rigors of the season! Scarcely can I resist it myself. 
Yet she brings under her arms the wood with which we warm ourselves ; 
and when I complain of the fatigue which she gives herself: Permit me, 
says she, my good mother, it is by exercise that I fortify myself against 
the cold; labor is made for my age. In fine, madam, she is as good 
as she is beautiful, and my husband and myself never speak of her 
without tears in our eyes! And if one should take her away from youl 
demanded the marchioness. We should lose, interrupted the old man, 
all which we hold most dear in the world; but, if she should become 
happy, we should die content with this consolation. Alas! yes, re- 
sumed the old lady shedding tears, let heaven grant her a fortune wor- 
thy of her, if it is possible! My hope was that this hand so dear to me 
should close my eyes; but I love her more than my life. Her arrival 
interrupted them. 

She appeared with a pail of milk in one hand, in the other a pannier 
of fruits; and, after having saluted them with a charming grace, she em- 
ployed herself in the care of the household, as if no one paid her any 
attention. You give yourself much trouble, my dear child, says the 
marchioness to her. I endeavor, madam, replied she, to fulfill the in- 
tention of my master and mistress who desire to recieve you in their 
best possible stile. You will make, pursued she, in spreading oh the 
table a coarse, linnen cloth, but of an extreme whiteness, you will make 
a frugal and rural repast. This bread is not the best in the world, but 
it has much savour; the eggs are fresh, the milk is good, and the fruits 
which I have just gathered are such as the season presents them. The 
diligence, the attention, the noble and decent graces with which this 
wonderful shepherdess rendered them all the duties of hospitality; the 
respect which she discovered to her master and mistress, whether she 

15 



8G 

addressed to them her discourse, or whether she sought to read in their 
eyes what they desired she should do, all penetrated with astonishment 
Monsieur and Madam de Fonrose. As soon as they had retired to the 
bed of fresh straw which she had herself prepared: Our adventure par- 
takes of prodigy, said one to the other; it is necessary to clear up this 
mystery, it is necessary to lead with us this child. 

At dawn, one of the men who had passed the night to repair their 
carriage, came to inform them that it was finished. Madam de Fon- 
rose, before departing, caused the shepherdess to be called. Without 
wishing to penetrate, says she to her, the secret of your birth and the 
cause of your misfortune, all which I see, all which [ hear, interests me 
for you. I perceive that your fortitude has raised you above misfor- 
tune, and that you have formed to yourself sentiments conformable to 
your present condition: your charms and your virtues render it re- 
spectable; but it is unworthy of you. I can. amiable unknown, place 
you in a better situation: the intentions of my husband accord perfect- 
ly with mine- I have at Turin a considerable estate; I want a friend, 
and I shall think of bringing back from this place an inestimable treasure, 
if you will accompany me. Banish from the proposition, from the en- 
treaty which I make you, all ideas of servitude; ] do not believe you 
are made for that condition; but should my prepossession deceive me, 
I prefer rather, to raise you above your birth, than to leave you beneath 
it. I repeat it to you* it is a friend which I wish to attach to me. As 
for the rest, be not in pain about the destiny of these good people; there 
is nothing which I would not do to indemnify them for your loss; at 
least they will have wherewith to finish tranquilly their life in the ease of 
their condition; and it is from your hands that they will receive the ben- 
efits which 1 destine them. The old man and his wife, present at this 
discourse, kissing the nands of the marchioness, and prostrating themselves 
at her knees, conjured the young unknown to accept these generous of- 
fers, represented to her in shedding tears, that they were on the brink 
of the grave, that she had no other consolation than to render them 
happy in their old age, and that at death, left to herself, their dwelling 
would become to her a frightful solitude. The shepherdess in embrac- 
ing them, mingled her tears with theirs, she rendered thanks for the 
kindness of Monsieur and Madam de Fonrose, with a sensibility which 
still embellished her. I cannot, says she, accept your benefits; heav- 
en has marked my place, and its will accomplishes itself; but your 
kindness has engraved on my soul traces which will never be erased. 
The respectable name of Fonrose will be without ceasing present to my 
mind. There remains to me but one favor to ask of you, says she in 
blushing and casting down her eyes; it is to bury this adventure in e- 
ternal silence, and leave the world forever ignorant of the destiny of 
the unknown who wishes to live and die in oblivion. Monsieur and 
Madam de Fonrose, affected and afflicted, redoubled a thousand times 
their instances: she was immovable: and the old man and his wife, the 
travellers and the shepherdess seperated with tears in their eyes. 

During the route, Monsieur and Madam de Fonrose occupied them- 
selves only with this adventure. They believed to have had a dream. 
The imagination filled with this kind of romance, they arrive at Turin. 



87 

One doubts whether silence was not preserved; and it was an inex- 
haustible subject of reflections and conjectures. The young Fonrose, 
present at these conversations, lost of them not a single circumstance. 
tie was at an age in which the imagination is the most vivid, and the 
heart the most susceptible of commiseration: but he was one of those 
characters whose sensibility by no means manifests itself without, so 
much the more violently agitated, when they come to be so, that the 
sentiment which affects them is not diminished by any kind of dissipa- 
tion. All which Fonrose hears related of the charms, of the virtues and 
of the misfortunes of the shepherdess of Savoy, kindles in his soul the 
most ardent desire to see her. He pictures to himself an image of her 
which to him is present without ceasing; he compares to her all which 
he sees and all is effaced in her presence. But the more his impatience re- 
doubles, the more care he has to dissemble it. The sojourn of Turin is 
odious to him. The valley which conceals from the world its most beauti- 
ful ornament, attracts his whole soul. It is there that happiness awaits 
him. But if his project is known, he sees there the greatest obstacles. 
They will never consent to the journey which he meditates: it is the fol- 
ly of a young man of which they will apprehend the consequences; the 
shepherdess herself, terrified at his pursuits, will not fail to steal herself 
from him: He loses her if it he known. After all these reflections which 
occupied him for three months, he takes the resolution to quit all for 
her, to go, under the habit of a shepherd, to seek her in solitude, and to 
die there or draw her from it. 

He disappears; they do not see him again. His parents, who ex- 
pect him, have at first some inquietude on account of him; their fear 
daily increases. Their disappointed expectation throws desolation into 
the family; the inutility of research completes their dispair. A quarrel, 
an assassination, every thing the most sinister, presents itself to their 
thoughts; and his unfortunate parents finish by weeping the death of 
this son, their only hope. Whilst his family is in sorrow, Fonrose, un- 
der the habit of a herdsman, presents himself to the inhabitants of the 
neighboring hamlets of the valley, which they had but too well describ- 
ed to him. His ambition is satisfied; they confide to him the care of a 
(lock. 

The first days he permits it to wander carelessly, attentive only to 
discover the places where the shepherdess led her own. Let us manage, 
said he, the timidity of this beautiful solitary; if she is unhappy, her 
heart has need of consolation ; if she has only aversion to the world, 
and that the taste of a tranquil and innocent life retains her in these 
places, she must experience there moments of ennui, and desire a so- 
ciety which may amuse or console her; let us leave her to seek mine. 
If I happen to render it agreeable to her, it will soon be necessary to 
her: then i shall take counsel from the situation of her soul. After ail, 
behold us alone in the universe, and we shall be every thing to one 
another. From confidence to friendship there is little distance, and 
from friendship to love the step is still more slippery at our age. And 
what age had Fonrose when he reasoned thus'? Fonrose was eighteen 
years old; but three months reflection on the same object develope? 
much the ideas. 



88 

Whilst he was delivering himself up to his reflections, his eyes wandering 
over the campaign, he hears in the distance that voice of which one had 
boasted so much the charms. The emotion which it caused him, was it 
as lively as if it had been unforeseen? "It is here,' said the shepherdess, 
in her plaintive songs, *« it is here, that my heart enjoys the only bles- 
sing which remains to it. My grief has delights for my soul ; I prefer 
its bitterness to the deceitful sweets of joy." These accents tore the 
sensible heart of Fonrose. What can be, said he, the cause of the 
chagrin which consumes her; how sweet would it be to console her! 
A hope still more sweet dared scarcely flatter his desires. He feared to 
alarm the shepherdess, if he delivered himself up imprudently to the 
impatience of seeing her more near; and, for the first time, it wassufli- 
cient to have heard her. The next day, he returned to the pasturage; 
and, after having observed the route which she had taken, he fled to a 
place at the foot of a rock which, the preceding day, repeated to him the 
sounds of that touching voice. I forgot to say that Fonrose, to the most 
genteel figure in the world, united talents which the young nobility of 
Italy do not neglect to cultivate. He played on the hautboy like Be- 
suzzi, of whom he had taken lessons, and who caused at that time the 
pleasures of Europe. Adelaide, more profoundly buried in her afflict- 
ing ideas, had by no means yet caused her voice to be heard; and the 
echoes kept silence. Suddenly this silence was interrupted by the 
plaintive sounds of the hautboy of Fonrose. These unknown sounds 
excited in the soul of Adelaide a surprise mingled with trouble. The 
guardians of the flocks, wandering over these hills, had caused her to 
hear only the sounds of the rustic trumpets. Immovable and atten- 
tive, she seeks with her eyes who can form so sweet accents. She 
perceives from afar, a young shepherd seated in the hollow of a rock, at 
the foot of which grazed his flock. She approaches, the better to hear. 
You see, says she, what the instinct alone of nature can do! The ear 
indicates to this shepherd all the nicities of art. Can one give more 
pure sounds? What delicacy in the inflections!— what variety in the 
touches or embellishments! Let one say after this, that taste is not 
a gift of nature. Since Adelaide had dwelt in this solitude, it was the 
first time that her grief, suspended by an agreeable distraction, yielded 
her soul to the soft emotion of pleasure. 

Fonrose, who had seen her approach and seat herself near a willow 
to hear him, did not appear to perceive it. He seized, without affec- 
tation, the moment of her retreat, and measured the march of her flock, 
so as to meet her on the declivity of the hill, where their ways crossed 
each other. He only cast a look upon her, and continued his route, 
as being occupied only with the care of his flock. But what beauties 
this regard had run over! what eyes! what a divine mouth! These 
features, so noble and so touching in their languor, how much more 
ravishing, if love animated them! One saw clearly that grief had alone 
tarnished, in their spring, the roses of her beautiful cheeks; but of so 
many charms, that which had the most sensibly affected him, was the 
noble elegance of her form and carriage; by the suppleness of her 
movements, she appeared a young cedar, whose erect and flexible trunk 
yields gently $o the zephyrs. That image, which love had engraved 



89 

with dirts of fire in his memory, possessed itself of his whole soul. How 
feebly they have painted her to me, said he, this beauty unknown to 
the world, of which she merits the adorations! and it is a desert which 
she inhabits! and it is thatch which covers her! She who ought to see 
kings at her feet, occupies herself with the care of a vile flock! Under 
what vestments is she presented to my view! she embellishes every 
thing and nothing disfigures her. 

Yei, *vhit a kind of life for a body so delicate! coarse aliments, a 
savage climate, straw for a bed; great God! and for whom are made 
the roses? Yes, I wish to draw her from this condition, too unhappy 
aud too unworthy of her. Sleep interrupted his reflections, but by no 
means effaced this image, i^delaide, on her part, sensibly struck with 
the youth and beauty of Fonrose, did not cease to admire the caprices 
of fortune. Where does nature go to collect, said she, so many talents 
and so much grace? But, alas! these gifts, which are only useless to 
him, would perhaps constitute his unhappiness in a more elevated 
situation. What evils does not beauty cause in the world ! Unhappy ! is it 
for me to attach some price to it? The desolating reflection, came to 
empoison in her soul the pleasure which she had tasted: she reproached 
herself for having been sensible to it, and resolved to reject it for the fu- 
ture. The next day, Fonrose believed to perceive that she avoided his 
approach. He fell into a mortal sadness. Could she suspect my dis- 
guised said he; could I have betrayed myself? This inquietude occu- 
pied him the whole day, and his hautboy was neglected. Adelaide 
was not so far but she might easily have heard him, and his silence as- 
tonished her; she began herself to sing: " It seems, said her song, 
that all which surrounds me partakes of my ennui; the birds cause only 
sad accents to be heard, the echo answers me by complaints, the zephyrs 
sigh among the foliage, the murmur of the brooks imitate my sighs; one 
would say that they flow tears." Fonrose, affected by her song, 
could not help replying to it. Never was a concert more touching than 
that of his hautboy with the voice of Adelaide. O heaven ! says shei 
is it enchantment] I dare not believe my ears: it is not a shepherd, it is 
a god which I hear. The natural sentiment of harmony, can it inspire 
these accents'? As she thus spoke, a rural melody, or rather celestial, 
caused the valley to resound. Adelaide believed to see realized the pro- 
digies which poesy attributes to music, her brilliant sister. Confused, 
confounded, she did not know if she ought to withdraw or yield herself 
up to this enchantment. But she perceived t\)3 shepherd, to whom she 
was listening, reassembling his flock to regain his cabin. He is ignorant, 
says she, of the charms which he diffuses around him; his simple soul is 
no more vain on account of it: he does not wait the eulogies which I owe 
him. Such is the power of music: it is the only one ofthe^talents which 
can enjoy itself; all the others wish witnesses. Thic gift of heaven was 
granted to man in innocence; it is the most pure of all pleasures. Alas ! 
it is the only one which I still enjoy; and I regard this shepherd as a 
new echo which comes to answer to my grief. 

The following days,Tonrose affected to withdraw himself in his turn. 
Adelaide was afflicted at it. Destiny, says she, seemed to have man- 
aged for me this feeble consolation; I yielded myself up to it too 

16 



90 

easily; and, to punish me, she deprives me of it. One day, in fine, 
when they met each other on the declivity of the hill: Shepherd, says she 
to him, do you lead very far off your flock.' These first words of Adelaide 
caused to Fonrose a shock which almost deprived him of the use of his 
voice. I do not know, says he in hesitating: it is not I who con- 
duct my flock, it is my flock which conducts me: these places are 
bettjer known to it than to me; I leave to it the choice of the best pas- 
turage. From whence are you then, demanded of him the shepherd- 
ess'? [ have seen the day beyond the Alps, replied Fonrose. Were 
you born among shepherds? pursued she. Since I am a shepherd, 
says he in casting down his eyes, it is necessary indeed that I should be 
born to be so. It is what I doubt, replied Adelaide in observing him 
with attention. Your talents, your language, even your air, every 
thing announces to me that destiny had placed you better. You are 
very good, resumed Fonrose; but is it for you to believe that nature 
refuses every thing to the shepherd? Were you born to be a queens- 
Adelaide blushes at this reply; and changing purposely: The other 
day, at the sound of the hautboy, you accompanied my song with an 
art which would be a prodigy in a simple guardian of flocks. It is 
your voice which is one of them, resumed Fonrose, in a simple shep- 
herdess. — But has no one instructed you? I have, like yourself, no 
other guides than my heart and my ear. You sung, I was affected: 
what my heart feels, my hautboy expresses; I inspire it with my soul: 
behold all my secret; nothing in the world is more easy. That is in- 
conceivable, says Adelaide. It is what I have said in listenening to 
you, resumed Fonrose; yet it has been indeed necessary to believe. — 
What do you wish? nature and love divert themselves sometimes in 
reuniting all which they have most precious in the most humble for- 
tune, to make it appear that there is no situation which they cannot 
ennoble. During this conversation, they advanced into the valley; and 
Fonrose, whom a ray of hope animated, caused to burst forth on the 
air, the brilliant sounds which pleasure inspires. Ah! in mercy, says 
Adelaide, spare my soul the importunate image of a sentiment which it 
cannot taste. This solitude is consecrated to grief; these echoes are 
by no means accustomed to repeat the accents of a profane joy: here all 
sighs with me. I have something there to complain of, myself, resumed 
the young man; and these words, pronounced with a sigh, were followed 
by a long silence. Ypu have to complain yourself! resumed Ade- 
laide; is it of men? is it of destiny? I do not know, says he; but I am 
not happy: do not ask me more about it. Listen, says Adelaide: hea- 
ven gives us both a consolation in our pains; mine are like a crushing 
weight with which my heart is oppressed. Whoever you may be, if 
you know misfortune, you ought to be compassionate, and I believe 
you worthy of my confidence; but promise me that it shall be mutual. 
Alas! says Fonrose, my pains are such that I shall be perhaps con- 
demned never to reveal them. This mystery only redoubled the cu- 
riosity of Adelaide. Return tomorrow, says she to him, at the foot of 
this hill, under this old thick oak where you have heard me sigh. There, 
I will discover to you things which will excite your pity. Fonrose 
passed the night in a mortal agitation. His destiny depended on what 
he was about to be informed. A thousand terrifying thoughts came to 



91 

agitate him in turn. He apprehended, above all, the dispairing confi- 
dence of an unhappy and faithful love. If she loves, says he, I am 
lost. 

He returned to the place indicated. He saw Adelaide arrive. The 
day was obscured with clouds, and nature in mourning seemed to pre- 
sage the sadness of their interview. As soon as they were seated at 
the foot of the oak, Adelaide spoke thus: " You see these stones which 
the grass begins to conceal, it is the tomb of the most tender, of the 
most virtuous of men, to whom my love and my imprudence have 
cost the life. I am French, of a distinguished family, and too rich for 
my misfortune. The Count ofd'Orestan conceived for me the most 
tender love: I was sensible of it, I was so to excess. My parents op- 
posed themselves to the inclination of our hearts; and my foolish pas- 
sion made me consent to a hymen sacred to virtuous souls, but disa- 
vowed by the laws. Italy was the theatre of war. My husband went 
there to join the corps which he was to command: I followed him even 
to Briancon; my foolish tenderness retained him there two days in spite 
of himself. This young man, full of honor, did not prolong his sojourn 
but with an extreme repugnance. He sacrificed to me his duty ; but 
why had I not sacrificed to him myself? In a word, I exacted it; he 
could not resist my tears. He departed with a presentiment with 
which I was myself terrified. I accompanied him even into this valley, 
where [ received his adieus; and, to wait for news from him,I returned to 
Briancon. A few days afterwards the rumor of a battle was spread 
abroad. I doubted if d' Orestan was in it, I wished it for his glory, I 
feared it for my love, when I received from him a letter which I thought 
verv consoling. I will be on such a day, at such an hour, said he to 
me, in the valley, and under the oak where we separated, I will return 
there alone, I conjure you to go there and wait for me alone: I live no 
longer but for you. What was my mistake! I perceived in this billet 
only the impatience of revisiting me, and I applauded myself for this 
impatience. I returned then under thissamerjak. D 'Orestan arrives, 
and after the most tender reception: You have wished it, my dear Ad- 
elaide, says he to me, I have failed in my duty in the most important 
moment of my life. What I feared has arrived. Battle is given; my 
regiment has charged; it has done prodigies of valor, and I was not 
there. I am dishonored, lost without resource. I do not reproach you 
with my misfortune; but I have no longer only one sacrifice to make 
you, and my heart wishes to consummate it. At this discourse, pale, 
trembling, and scarcely respiring, I received my husband in my arms. 
I felt my blood chill in my veins; my knees bent beneath me, and I 
fell without knowing it. He profited of my fainting to tear himself 
from my bosom, and soon I was recalled to life by the noise of the 
blow which gave him death. I shall by no means paint the situation 
in which I found myself: it is inexpressible; and the tears which you 
see flow, the sobs which choke my voice, are a too feeble ima<*e of it. 
After having passed a whole night near this bloody corpse, in a stupid 
grief, my first care was to bury with him my shame: my hands dug; 
his grave. I wish indeed by no means to effect your sensibility^ 
but the moment in which the earth must separate me from the sad 
remains of my husband, was a thousand times more frightful to 



92 

me than that can be which shall separate my body from my soul. — 
Exhausted with grief and deprived of nourishment, my failing hands oc- 
cupied two days in digging this grave, with inconceivable pains. When 
my strength abandoned me, I reposed myself on the livid and icy bo- 
som of my husband. In fine, Trendered him the duties of sepulture, 
and my heart promised him to wait in these places, till death might 
reunite us. However, cruel hunger began to devour my withered en- 
trails. I considered it a crime to refuse to nature the support of a life 
more dolorous than death. I changed my vestments for the simple 
habit of a shepherdess, and I embraced its condition as my only refuge. 
Since this time, all my consolation is to come and weep over his tomb, 
which will be mine. You see, pursued she, with what sincerity I open 
to you my soul; I can with you henceforth weep with freedom: it is a 
relief of which I had need; but I expect from you the same confidence. 
Do not think to have deceived me. I perceive clearly that the condi- 
tion of a shepherd is as strange to you and more novel than to me. — 
You are young, perhaps sensible; and if I may believe my own con- 
jectures on the subject, our misfortunes have had the same source, and 
like myself you have loved. We shall be, on account of it, more sym- 
pathising for each other. I regard you as a friend whom heaven, touch- 
ed with my misfortunes, deigns to send me in my solitude. Regard 
me as a friend capable of giving you, if not salutary, at least consol- 
ing examples." 

You penetrate me, says Fonrose to her, overwhelmed with what he 
had just heard; and, whatever sensibility you supposed me to possess, 
you are very far from imagining the impression which the recital of 
your misfortunes has made on me- Alas! that I cannot reply to it with 
that confidence which you manifest towards me, and of which you are 
so worthy; but I have said it to you, I had foreseen it: such is the 
nature of my pains, that an eternal silence ought to shut them up in 
the bottom of my heart. You are very unhappy! added he with a 
profound sigh; I am still more unhappy: it is all I can say to you. 
Do not be offended at my silence: it is frightful to me to be condemn- 
ed to it. The assiduous companion of ail your steps, I will mitigate 
all your labors, I will share all ycur pains; I will see you weep over 
this tomb; I will mingle there my tears with yours. You will by no 
means repent of having deposed your ennuis in a heart, alas! too sens- 
ible. I repent of it even now, says she with confusion; and both, with 
their eyes cast down, retired in silence. Adelaide, on quitting Fonrose, 
believed to see in his countenance the impress of a profound grief. I 
have renewed, said she, the sentiment of his pains, and what must be 
their horror, since he believes himself stiil more unhappy than myself! 

From this day, more singing, mere conversation followed between 
Fonrose and Adelaide. They neither sought nor avoided each other; 
regards in which consternation was depicted, constituted almost their 
only language. If he found her weeping over the tomb of her hus- 
band, his heart seized with pity, with jealousy and with grief, he con- 
templated her in silence, and answered to her sobs by profound sighs. 

Two months had scarcely flown away in this painful situation ; and 
Adelaide saw the youth of Fonrose wither like a flower. The chagrin 
which consumed him, afflicted her so much the more sensibly, as the 



93 

cause was unknown to her. She was very far from suspecting that she 
was the object of it. Yet, as it is natural that two sentiments which 
share a soul weaken each other, the regrets of Adelaide on the death of 
d'Orestan became less sensible each day, in proportion as she yielded 
herself up more to the pity which Fonrose inspired. She was very 
sure that this pity was only innocent: it did not even come into her 
mind to defend herself against it; and the object of this generous senti- 
ment, without ceasing present to her view, revived it every instant. 
The languor into which this young man had fallen, became such, that 
Adelaide did not believe she ought to leave him a longer time delivered 
up to himself You perish, says she to him, and you add to my pains 
that of seeing you consumed with ennui beneath my eyes, without be- 
ing able to bring there a remedy. If the recital of the imprudences of 
my youth has not inspired you with contempt for me, if friendship the 
most pure and the most tender is dear to you; in fine, if you do not 
wish to render me more unhappy than I was before having known you, 
confide to me the cause of your pains: you have only myself in the 
world to aid you in sustaining them. Your secret, should it be more 
important than mine, by no means fear that I would betray it. The 
death of my husband has placed an abyss between the world and my- 
self; and the cofidence which I exact will soon be buried in this grave, 
where grief, by slow steps is conducting me. I hope to precede you 
there, says Fonrose bursting into a flood of tears. Leave me to finish 
my deplorable life, without leaving to you, after me, the reproach of 
having abridged its course. O heaven! what do I hear! cried she dis- 
tracted. Who, me? I should have contributed to the evils which crush 
you! Finish, you pierce my heart; what have I done? what have I 
said! Alas! I tremble! O heaven, hast thou placed me in the world 
only to cause unhappiness'? Speak, I say to you, it is no longer time to 
conceal from me who you are: you have said too much about it, to 

dissemble longer. Well! I am J am Fonrose, the son of the travellers 

whom you have penetrated with admiration and respect. All which 
they have related of your virtues, of your charms, has inspired me with 
the fatal design of coming to see you under this disguise. I have left 
my family in desolation, believing to have lost me and weeping my 
death. I have seen you, I know what attaches you to these places; I 
know that the only hope which remains to me, is to die here, in adoring 
you. Spare me useless counsel and unjust reproaches, My resolution 
is as firm, as immovable as yours. If, betraying my secret, you should 
trouble the last moments of a life which is becoming extinct, you would 
have uselessly done me a wrong, who would never have done the same 
to you. 

Adelaide, confounded, endeavored to calm the dispair in which this 
young man was plunged. Let us render, says she, to his parents the 
service of recalling him to life; let us save their only hope; heaven 
proffers me this occasion of recognising their goodness. Thus, far from 
frightening him by a displaced rigor, all which pity has, the most tender, 
all which friendship has, the most consoling, was put in requisition to 
calm him. 

Angel of heaven, cried Fonrose, I feel all the repugnance which you 



94 

have to render one unhappy: your heart is with him who reposes in 
this tomb; I perceive that nothing can detach you from him, I perceive 
how ingenius is your virtue to conceal from me my unhappiness, I feel 
it in its full extent, I am overwhelmed by it, but I pardon it you. 
Your duty is never to love me, mine is to adore you forever. 

Impatient to execute the design which she had conceived, Adelaide 
arrives in the cabin. My father, says she to her old master, do you 
feel sufficient strength to undertake the journey of Turin? I have need 
of some one in whom I can confide, to give Monsieur and Madam de 
Fonrose the most interesting advice. The old man replied that his zeal 
to serve them inspired him with the courage to do it. Go, resumed 
Adelaide, you will find them weeping the death of their only son; in- 
form them that he is living, that he is in this place, and that it is myself 
who wish to restore him to them; but that it is indispensably necessa- 
ry that they should come themselves to seek him. 

He departs, he arrives at Turin, he announces himself as the old man 
of the valley of Savoy. Ah! cried Madam de Fonrose, perhaps some 
misfortune has happened to our shepherdess. Let him come in, added 
the marquis, he will announce to us perhaps, that she consents to live 
with us. After the loss of my son, says the marchioness, it is the only 
consolation which I can enjoy in the world. The old man is introduc- 
ed. He prostrates himself, they raise him up. You weep a son, says 
he to them; I come to tell you that he is living: it is our dear child 
who has discoverd him in the valley; she sends me to inform you of it; 
but you alone, says she, can lead him back. As he thus spoke, sur- 
prise and joy had deprived Madam de Fonrose of the use of her senses. 
The marouis, lost, wandering, calls the assistance of his wife, he re- 
calls her to life, embraces the old man, announces throughout the house 
that their son is restored to them. The marchioness resuming her spir- 
its: What shall we do, says she in seizing the hands of the old man 
and clasping them with tenderness; what shall we do to acknowledge 
a benefit which restores to us life! 

Every thing is arranged for the departure. They set out on the 
journey with the good man; they travel night and day; they return to 
the valley! where their only blessing awaits them. Tke shepherdess 
was in the pasturage; the old lady conducts them there: they approach. 
What is their surprise! their son,this well beloved son is near her! under 
the habit of a simple shepherd: their hearts sooner, than their eyes re- 
cognise him. Ah! cruel child, cries his mother in throwing herself 
into his ?rms, what chagrin have you given us! Why did you steal 
yourself from our tenderness, and what did you come here to do! To 
adore, says he, what you have admired yourselves. Pardon, madam, 
says Adelaide, whilst Fonrose embraced the knees of his father who 
raised him with kindness, pardon having left you so long a time in 
grief ! If I had known it sooner, you should have been sooner consoled. 
After the first movements of nature, Fonrose had fallen again into the 
most profound affliction. Let us go, says the marquis, let us go and 
repose ourselves in the cabin, and forget all the chagrins which this 
young fool has given us. Yes, Sir, I have been so, says Fonrose to his 
father who led him by the hand. Nothing less than the aberration of 



95 

my reason wag necessary to suppress in my heart the movements 0/ 
nature, to make me forget the most sacred duties, detach me in fine 
from all which I held most dear in the world; but this folly, you have 
given it birth, and I am too well punished for it. I love, without hope, 
that which is the most accomplished on earth. You see nothing, yon 
know nothing of this incomparable woman: she is modesty, sensibility, 
virtue itself; I love her even to idolatry: I cannot be happy without 
her, and I know that she cannot be mine. Has she confided to you, 
demanded the marquis, the secret of her birth'? I have learnt enough 
of it, says Fonrose, to assure you that it yields in nothing to mine: 
she has even renounced a considerable fortune to bury herself in this 
desert. — And do you know who has engaged her to do it"? Yes, my 
father, but it is a secret which she alone can reveal to you. She is 
married, perhaps?— She is a widow; but her heart is no more free on 
account of it, her ties for it are only more strong. My daughter, says 
the marquis on entering into the cabin, you see that you turn the heads 
of all who call themselves Fonrose. The extravigant passion of this 
young man cannot be justified only by an object as prodigious as 
yourself. All the wishes of my wife were limited to having \<m as a 
companion and friend; this child does not wish longer to live, if he 
does not obtain you for a wife; I desire no less to have you for a 

daughter: you see how much unhappiness you create by a refusal. ■ 

Ah! Sir, says she, your goodness confounds me: but listen, and judge me. 
Then, in presence of the old man and his wife, Adelaide made to them 
the recital of her deplorable adventure. She added to it the name of 
her family, which was not unknown to Monsieur de Fonrose, and fin- 
ished by taking him as a witness himself of the inviolable fidelity which 
she owed her husband. At these words, consternation diffused itself 
on all their countenances. The young Fonrose, whom his sobs suffo- 
cated, precipitated himself into a corner of the cabin, to give them 3 
free course. The father affected flew to the succour of his child. See, 
said he, my dear Adelaide, in what situation you have placed me, — 
Madam de Fonrose, who was near Adelaide, pressed her in her arms 
in bathing her with her tears* And what, my daughter, said she to her^ 
will you make us weep a second time the death of our dear child? 
The old man and his wife, their eyes filled with tears, and fixed on 
Adelaide, waited that she might commence speaking. Heaven is my 
witness, says Adelaide, in raising herself, that I would give my life ti> 
acknowledge so much goodness. This Would complete my misfort- 
unes, that of having to reproach myself with yours: but I wish that 
Fonrose himself may be my judge; permit me the favor to speak 
to him one moment. Then, retiring alone with him: listen says she 
to him, Fonrose; you know what sacred ties retain me in this place. 
If I could cease to cherish and to weep a husband who has but too 
Well loved me, I should be the most contemptible of women. Esteem, 
gratitude, are sentiments which I owe you; but nothing of all that 
takes the place of love: the more you have conceived of it for me, the 
more you have a right to expect of it; it is the impossibility of 
fulfilling this duty which prevents me from imposing it. Yet I see yon 
in a situation which would affect a heart the least sensible; it is 
frightful to me to be the cause of it; it would be more frightful to me 



96 

to hear your parents accuse me of having destroyed you I wish then 
indeed to forget myself at this moment, and to leave you, as much as 
in my power, the arbiter ot our destiny. It is for you to choose that 
of the two situations which appears to you the least painful; either to 
renounce me, to overcome yourself and forget me; or to possess a 
woman who, the heart filled with another object, would be unable to 
grant you only sentiments too feeble to fulfill the wishes of a lover. 
It is enough, cried Fonrose, and with a soul like yours, friendship ought 
to take the place of love. I shall be jealous without doubt of the 
tears which you will give to the memory of another husband; but the 
cause of this jealousy, in rendering you more respectable, will ren- 
der you more dear in my eyes. 

She i3 mine, says he, in coming to throw himself into the arms of 
his parents: it is to her respect for you, to your goodness which I am 
indebted for her, and it is to owe you a second life. From this mo- 
ment their arms were chains, from which Adelaide could not disen- 
gage herself. 

Did she yield only to pity, to gratitude! I wish to believe so, to ad- 
mire her more: Adelaide believed so herself. Although it might be so, 
before departing, she wished to revisit this tomb which she quit only 
with regret. O my dear d'Orestan, says she, if from the bosom of the 
dead you can read the bottom of my soul, your shade has nothing to 
murmur of the sacrifice which I make: I owe it to the generous senti- 
ments of this virtuous family: but my heart remains yours forever. I 
am about endeavoring to promote happiness, without any hope of be- 
ing happy myself. They did not take her from this place but with a 
kind of violence; yet she exacted that they should erect there a monu- 
ment to the memory of her husband, and that the cabin of her old mas- 
ter and mistress, who follow r ed her to Turin, should be changed into a 
country-seat as simple as solitary, where she proposed to herself to come 
sometimes to weep the aberrations and the misfortunes of her youth. 
Time, the assiduous cares of Fonrose, the fruits of her second hymen, 
have opened her heart to the impressions of a new tenderness; she is 
cited as an example of an interesting woman, and respectable even in 
her fidelity. 



THE ADVENTURES OF ARISTONOUS. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH. 

[Anonymous.] 

Sophronimbus having lost the inheritance of his ancestors, by ship- 
wreck and other misfortunes, consoled himself by his virtue on the 
island of Delos. There he sung to his golden lyre the wonders of the god 
adored there; cultivated the muses, by whom he was beloved; investi- 
gated curiously all the secrets of nature, the course of the stars and the 



97 

heavens, the order of the elements, the structure of the universe which 
he measured with his compasses, the virtue of plants, the conformation 
of animals; but above all he studied himself, and applied himself in a- 
dorning his soul with virtue; thus fortune, in wishing to cast him down, 
had raised him to true glory, which is that of wsidom. 

Whilst he lived happy without wealth in this retreat, he discovered, 
one day on the border of the sea, a venerable old man who was un- 
known to him: he was a Stranger, who had just arrived on the island. 
This old man admired the borders of the sea, in which he knew that this 
island had formerly floated; he regarded attentively, this coast where 
elevated themselves on high, sand banks and rocks, small hills ever cov- 
ered with a young and flowery turf: he could not satiate his eyes with 
beholding the pure fountains and rapid rivulets which watered this de- 
lightful campaign; he advanced towards the sacred groves which sur- 
rounded the temple of the god; he was astonished at beholding this ver- 
dure which the north winds dared never to wither, and he contempla- 
ted now the temple of Parian marble; whiter than snow, surrounded 
with high columns of jasper. Sophronimous was not less attentive in ob- 
serving this old man; his snowy beard fell upon his breast, his wrinkled 
visage had nothing of deformity, he was still exempt from the injuries 
of declining old age, his eyes discovered a sweet vivacity, his form was 
lofty and majestic, but a little bent, and a staff of ivory sustained him. 
O stranger, says Sophronimous to him ,what seek you in this isle, which 
appears to be unknown to you? If it is the temple of the god, you see it 
in the distance, and I offer myself as your conductor, for I fear the gods, 
and have learned what Jupiter wishes me to do, to succour strangers. 

I accept, resumed this old man, the offer which you make me with 
so many marks of kindness: I pray the gods to recompense your love 
for strangers; let us go towards the temple. On the way, he related 
to Sophronimous the subject of his voyage: I call myself, says he, Aris- 
tonous, a native of Clazomene, a city of [onia, situated on that agree- 
able coast, which advances into the sea, and seems about to unite it- 
self to the island of Chio, fortunate country of Homer; I was born of 
indigent parents, although noble; my father's name was Polystratus, 
who already burthened with a numerous family, and unwilling to bring 
me up or educate me; caused me to be exposed by one of his friends 
ofTeos. An old woman of Erythreus, who had a habitation near the 
place where I was exposed, nourished me on goats' milk in her own 
house; but as she was indigent, as soon as I was of age to go to service, 
she sold me to a slave-merchant, who carried me to Lycia. This mer- 
chant resold me at Patarus, to a rich and virtuous man, named Alci 
nous, and Aleinous took care of me in my youth: 1 appeared to him do- 
cile, moderate, sincere, affectionate and with a disposition for every 
thing honest and useful in which he wished to instruct me; he caused 
me to apply myself to the arts which Apollo patronizes: he sent me to 
learn music, the exercises of the body, and above all the art of curing 
human diseases. I soo nacquired great reputation in this art, which is 
so necessary; and Apollo, who inspired me, revealed to me wonderful 
secrets. Aleinous who loved me more and more, and who was rav- 
ished at seeing the success of his attentions to me, emancipated and sent 

17 



98 

me to Polycrates, Tyrant of £amos, who in his inconceivable felicity 
wag ever fearful lest fortune, after having so long time flattered him, 
might cruelly betray him. He loved life which for him was full of pleas- 
ure and delight; he feared to lose it, and wished lo prevent the least ap- 
pearance of evil: thus he was ever surrounded by men, the most cele- 
brated in medicine. Polycrates was delighted that [ wished to pass my 
life near hiin. To attach me, he gave me great riches and loaded me 
with honors. I remained a Jong time at Samos, where 1 could not but 
be very much astonished at seeing how fortune seemed to. take pleasure 
in serving him agreeable to all his wishes; it was suliicient, that lie un- 
dertook a war, victory followed of course; he had only to wish the 
most dfficult things, they w T ere immediately accomplished as of them- 
selves; his immense riches accumulated daily; all his enemies were sub- 
ject at hfe feet; his health, far from diminishing, became more establish- 
ed and uniform; it was now forty years that this t}rant, tranquil and 
happy, held fortune as enchained, without her ever daring to betray 
him in any thing, or cause him the least deception in all his designs. 
A prosperty so unheard of among men, caused me to fear for him; I 
loved him sincerely, and I could not help discovering to him my fear: 
ii made an impression on his heart, as yet though be was enervated by 
luxury and puffed up with his power, he did not cease to have some 
sentiments of humanity, when he was reminded of the gods and the in- 
constancy of human things, lie permitted me to tell him the truth, 
and he was so touched with my fear for him, that at last he resohed 
to interrupt the course of his prosperity l>\ a loss which he wished to 
prepare ihr himself. I perceive clearly, says lie to me, there is no 
man. who should not in his life time experience some reverse of fortune; 
the more a person has been spared by her, the n ore he ought, to fear 
*ome frightful revolution: myself, whom she has <-\ei whelmed with 
hlessings during so it any years, should expect extreme misfortunes, if i 
do not avert that which seems to threaten lee; I wish then to hasten 
in preventing the treachery of this flattering fortune. In uttering thes 
words, he drew from his finger a ring, of exceeding great price, and 
which he valued highly; he threw it in my presence hum the top of a 
tower into the sea, expecting by this loss to have satisfied the necessity 
of submitting:, at teast, once in his life time, to the rigours- of fortune: 
hut it was a blindness caused by his prosperity; the evils which we seek, 
and which we cause ourselves are no longer evils; we are afflicted on- 
ly with forced and unforeseen sufferings, with which, the gods smite us. 
Polycrates knew not that the true means of anticipating fortune, was 
lo detach himself by wisdom and moderation from all the fragile giils 
which she proffers. Fortune to whom he wished to sacrfice his ring by 
no means accepted this sacrifice, and Polycrates, in spiieofit. appear- 
ed more happy than ever. A fish had swallowed the ring, the fish had 
been caught, and carried to Polycrates' house, prepared to he served 
at his table, and the ring found by a cook in the belly of the fish, 
was restored to the Tyrant, who grew pale at the view of a fortune so 
obstinate in favoring him; but the time was approaching^ in which hi 
prosperity was suddenly to he changed into frightful adversity. '[ he 
great king of Persia, Darin.-, spn of Hystapes, undertook a war again* 



99 

the Greeks; ha soon subjugated all the Grecian colonies on the coast 
of Asia, aad soma of the neighboring isles in the Egean sea; Samoa was 
taken, the Tyrant was vanquished, and Orontes who commanded for 
the great king, having caused a high cross to be erected, had the Tyrant 
nailed to it: thus this man who had enjoyed so great prosperity, and 
who hid not been able even to experience the misfortune which he had 
sought, perished suddenly by the most cruel and ignominious of all pun- 
ishments. Thus nothing- threatens men so much with some great ca- 
lamity as a too great prosperity: that fortune which sports cruelly with 
men in the most elevated situations, raises also from the dust those who 
ice the most wretched; she had precipitated Polycrates from the top 
of the wheel, and had caused me to emerge from the most miserable of 
all conditions, to give me great blessings. The Persians did not deprive 
me of them; on the contrary they held in high estimation my science 
in curing men, and the modesty w r ith which I had lived during the 
time [ was in favor with the Tyrant; those who had abused his confi- 
dence and authority, were punished with diverse punishments. As I 
had never injured any one, but as I had on the contrary done all the 
<rood in my power, I remained the only one whom the victors spared, 
and whom they treated honorably: every one rejoiced at it, for I was 
beloved, and had enjoyed prosperity without envy, because I 
had never discovered, neither hardheartedness, nor pride, nor avidity, 
nor injustice. I passed still at Samos some years very tranquilly; but 
I felt in fine a violeut desire to revisit Lycia, where I had passed so ?*- 
greeably my infancy: I hoped to find there Alcinous who had brought 
me up, and was the first author of all my fortune. On arriving in thi* 
country, I learned that Alcinous was dead after having lost his property, 
and suffered with much constancy the infirmities of old age. I went 
to scatter flowers and shed tears on his ashes: I put an honorable in- 
scription on his tomb, and asked what had become of his children. I 
was told that the only one who remained, named Orcilochus, unable. 
to form the resolution of appearing again without property, in his na- 
tive country, in which his father had possessed so much celebrity, had 
embarked in a foreign vessel, to lead an obscure life in some island re- 
mote from the sea. I was told that this Orcilochus had been shipwreck- 
ed, a short time after, near the island of Carpathia, and that therefore, 
there remained no one of the family of my benefactor Alcinous. Im- 
mediately, I contemplated purchasing the house in which he had dwelt, 
with the fertile fields which he possessed on the environs: I was very 
happy to revisit these places which recalled to my mind the pleasing 
recollection of an age so agreeable, and of so good a master: It seem- 
ed to me that I was still in that flower of my first years in which I served 
Alcinous. Scarcely had I purchased of his creditors the effects of his suc- 
cession, when I was obliged to go to Clazomene: my father Polycrates 
and my mother Phidile were dead; 1 had several brothers who lived 
unhappily together. As soon as I had arrived at Clazomene, I present- 
ed myself to them with a simple habit, like a man dispossessed of prop- 
erty, in discovering to them the marks with which you know we are 
careful of exposing children. They were astonished at seeing thus in- 
crease the numher of the heirs of Polycrates, who were to share hia 



100 

small inheritance; they even contested with me my birth, and refused 
before the Judges to recognise me. To punish their inhumanity, I de- 
clared that I consented to be considered as a stranger among them; I 
demanded that they should be excluded for ever fiom being my heirs. 
The Judges ordered it, and then I showed the riches which I had brought 
in my vessel; I discovered to them that I was that Aristonous who had 
acquired so many treasures near Polycrates of Samos, and that I had 
never married. 

My brothers repented of having treated me so unjustly; and with the 
desire of being one day my heirs, they made the last efforts, hut use- 
lessly, to insinuate themselves into my friendship. Their division was 
the cause that the effects of our father were sold; I purchased them, and 
they had the grief of seeing all the wealth of onr father pass into the 
hands of him to whom they did not wish to give the least part of it: 
thus they all fell into a frightful poverty. But after they had sufficient- 
ly felt their fault, I wished to show them my native, good disposition; I 
pardoned them, I received them into my house; I gave to each something 
with which he might gain wealth by commerce: 1 reunited them all ; they 
and their children remained peacably together at my house: I became 
the common father of all these different families: by their union and ap- 
plication to business, they soon amassed considerable wealth. Yet od 
age, as you perceive, has come to knock at my door; it has shed its 
snow on my locks and wrinkled my front; it warns me that I shall not 
enjoy a long time so perfect a prosperity. Before dying, I wished to 
see again for the last time this soil which is so dear to mc, and which 
touches me more than even my own country, this Lycia in which 1 
hare learned to be good and wise, under the conduct of the virtuous 
Alcinous. In repassing the sea, I found a merchant of the Cyclides* 
isles, who assured me that there still remained at Delos a son of Orci- 
lochus who imitated the wisdom and virtue of his grandfather Alcinous. 
As soon as I had quit the route of Lycia, T hastened to come and seek 
under the auspices of Apollo in his isle, this precious remnant of a fam- 
ily to which I owe every thing. There remains to me but a short time 
to live: The Fates, hostile to so sweet a repose, which the gods rarely 
grant to mortals, will hasten to cut the thread of my life: but I shall he 
content to die, if my eyes, before closing themselves to the light, be per- 
mitted to see the grandson of my master. Speak now 7 , O ye who dwell 
with him in this island; do you know him! Can you tell me where I 
•hall find him'? If you cause me to see him, may the gods as a recom- 
pense permit you to see on your knees the children of your children, 
even unto the fifth generation! May the gods preserve all your house 
in peace and abundance as a fruit of your virtue! \ T Y hilst Anstonous 
spoke thus, Sophronimous shed tears mingled with joy and grief. In 
fine, he threw himself without being able to speak on the neck of the old 
man: he embraced, he clasped him affectionately in his arms, and ut- 
tered with pain, these words interrupted with sighs: 

I am, O my father, him whom you seek; you behold Sophronimous, I 
the grandson of your friend Alcinous; it is me, and I cannot doubt in lis- 1 
tening to you, that the gods have sent you here to mitigate my suffer- f 
kgs. Gratitude which seemed lost on earth is found in you alone, ll 



101 

had heard say in my infancy that a celebrated and rich man, established 
at Samos, had been brought up at my grandfather's: but as Orcilochus 
my father, who died young, left me in the cradle, I knew those things 
bat confusedly: I dared not go to Samos in uncertainty, and I havepre- 
fered remaining in this island, consoling myself in my misfortunes with 
the contempt of vain riches and the agreeable employment of cultiva- 
ting the Muses, in the sacred temple of Apollo: wisdom which accustoms 
men to pass with little, and be tranquil, has taken the place until now 
of all other blessings. 

In finishing these words, Sophronimous seeing himself arrived at the 
temple, proposed to Aristonous to pray and make his offerings. They 
made to the god a sacrifice of two sheep whiter than snow, and a 
bull which had a cross on his front between his two horns: afterwards 
they sang verses in honor of the god who enlightens the universe, who 
rules the seasons, who presides over the sciences, and who animates 
the choir of the Muses. On issuing from the temple, Sophronimous 
and Aristonous passed the rest of the day in relating to each other 
their adventures. Sophronimous received at his own house the old 
man with the tenderness and respect which he would have manifested 
to Alciaous himself, if he had been still living: the next day they de- 
f irted together, and set sail towards Lycia. Aristonous led Sophronn 
moss into a fertile campaign, on the border of another river, in the 
waves of which Apollo on his return from the chase covered with dust, 
had so many times plunged his body and laved his beautiful golden 
loc.is. They found along the banks of this river, poplars and wil- 
lows, whose tender and Nourishing foliage concealed the nests of an 
infinite number of birds wmich sung night and day: the river falling 
from a rock with much noise and loam, broke its waves in a canal 
fall of small flint stones; the whole plain was covered with golden 
harvests; the hills which rose in the iorm of amphitheatres were load- 
ed with clumps of vines and fruit trees. There, ali nature was smiling 
and delightful, the heavens were mild and serene, and the earth ever 
ready to draw from her bosom, new riches to recompense the toil of 
the husbandman. In advancing along the border of the river, So- 
phronimous discovered a house of simple and humble pretensions, but 
of an agreeable architecture, with just proportions; there was neither 
marble, nor gold, nor silver, nor ivory, nor movables of purple; e\ery 
thing there was neat, agreeable and commodious without magnificence: 
a fountain flowed in the midst of the court, and formed a little canal 
through a verdant carpet. The gardens were by no means vast; there 
were seen fruits and plants useful for the nourishment of man. On 
moth sides of the garden appeared two groves, whose trees were almost 
^as ancient as the earth their mother, and whose thick branches caused 
a shade impenetrable to the rays of the sun. They entered into a 
saloon, where they made a delicious repast of food, which nature fur- 
bished in the garden, and we saw none of those delicacies which men 
seek so far and so dearly in cities; there was milk as sweet as that 
which Apollo had the care of extracting, whilst he was shepherd 
with King Admettus; there was honey more exquisite than that of the 
bees of Illibk in Sicily, or of Mount Hymetlus in Attica \ there were 

18 



102 

lentils of the garden and fruits which are gathered there; a wine more de- 
licious than nectar, flowed from large vases into chased cups. During 
this repast, frugal, but sweet at d tranquil, Aristonous was unwilling to 
sit at table: at first he did all he could, under diverse pretexts, to conceal 
his modesty; but in fine, as Sophronimus wished to press him, he declar- 
ed that he could never resolve to eat with the grandson of Alcinous, 
whom he hdd so long time served at the same table, Pehold, said he 
to him, where that wise old man was accustomed to eat; behold 
where he conversed with his friends; behold where he played at different 
games; behold where he walked in reading l!omer and Ifesiod; be- 
hold where he reposed during the night. In recalling to mind these 
circumstances, his heart was affected, and tears ! owed fiom his ey^. 
After the repast, he called Sophronimous to view the beautiful prairie, 
where wandered his large herds bellowing along the border of the riv- 
er; then they beheld the flocks of sheep which were returning from the 
luxuriant pastures: the bleating ewes, their udders distended with milk, 
were followed by their young and tender lambs skipping along the plain: 
we saw every where the hurried laborers, who loved labor for the inter- 
est of their mild and humane masters, who caused themselves to be be- 
loved by them and mitigated their pains of servitude. 

Aristonous having shown to Sophronimous this house, these slaves, 
these flocks and herds, and these lands rendered *u fertile by a diligent 
and careful culture, addressed him in these words. I am ravished to 
behold you in the ancient patrimony of your ancestors; behold me con- 
tent, since I put you in possession of the place in which I have served 
so long time Alcinous: enjoy in peace what was his, live happy, and 
prepare yourself at a distance by your vigilance for an end more mild 
than his. At the same time he made him a donation of this property 
with all the solemnities prescribed by the laws; and he declared that 
he excluded from his succession his natural heirs, if ever they should 
prove so ungrateful as to contest the donation, which he had made to 
the grandson of Alcinous his benefactor. Put this was not sufficient to 
content his heart; Aristonous, before giving his house, furnished it en- 
tirely with new furniture, simple and modest indeed, but neat and agree- 
able; he filled his granaries with the rich gifts of Ceres, and the cellar 
with a wine of Chio fit to be served by Ganymede at the table of the 
great Jupiter; he put there also some Parmenian wine, with an 
abundant provision of the honey of Hymettus and Hybla, and the oil 
of Attica, almost as sweet as the honey itself; in fine he added there 
innumerable fleeces of a wool fine and white as snow, the rich spoils 
of the tender sheep which graze on the mountains of Arcadia and in 
the fat pastures of Sicily. It was in this condition that he gave his 
house to Sophronimous. He gave him besides fifty Euboic talents, but 
reserved to his relations the estates which he possessed in the Peninsula 
of Clazomene, on the environs of Smyrna, of Lebede and Colophon, 
which were of very great value. Sophronimous, astonished and affected 
with so magnificent benefits, ac tompanied him even to the vessel with 
tears in his eyes, calling him ever his father and embracing him in hi* 
arms. Aristonous soon arrived home, by a prosperous and happy 
voyage: none of his relations dared complain of what he had given S$>- 



103 

phronimous. I have left, said he to them, as a last will in my testa- 
ment, this order, that all my effects shall be sold and distributed to the 
poor of Ionia, if any of you oppose the gift which I have made to the 
grandson of Alcinous. This wise old man lived in peace, and enjoyed 
the blessings which the gods had granted to his virtues. Every year, 
notwithstanding his old ag<}, he made a voyage to Lycia to revisit So- 
phronimous, and offer a sacrifice on the tomb of Alcinous, which he had 
enriched with the most beautiful ornaments of Architecture and Sculp- 
ture: he had ordered that his own remains, after his death, should be 
carried to the same tomb, that they might repose with those of his be- 
loved master. Every year, in the spring, Sophronimous, impatient to 
see him again, had, without ceasing, his eyes turned towards the sea 
shore, to endeavor to discover the vessel of Aristonous which arrived at 
that season: every year he had the pleasure of seeing arrive from afar 
through the briny waves, that vessel which Was so dear to him, and 
the arrival of the vessel was to him infinitely more agreeable than all 
the charms of reviving nature in the spring after the rigors of a frightful 
winter. 

One year he did not see arrive as formerly, the vessel so much de- 
sired: he sighed bitterly; sad s ess and fear were painted on his visage; 
sweet sleep fled afar his eye-lid; no exquisite food seemed sweet 
to him; he was inquiet, alarmed at the least noise, ever turned 
towards the port; he asked every moment if no one had seen a cer- 
tain vessel arrive from Ionia. One was seen; but, alas! Aristonous 
was not on board, it brought only his remains in a silver urn* Am- 
phicles, the ancient friend of the deceased, nearly of the same age, the 
faithful executor of his last wish, brought overwhelmed with grief, this 
urn. When he approached ^ophronimous, their utterance failed both, 
and they expressed themselves only by their sobs. Sophronimous hav- 
ing kissed the urn and watered it with his tears, thus broke silence: 

old man! you have been the happiness of my life, and you cause me 
now the most cruel of all pains; I shall behold you no more; death 
would be sweet to me to see and serve you in the Elysian fields where 
your shade enjoys the happy peace which the just gods reserve to \ ir- 
tue; you have led back in our day, justice, piety and gratitude on earth; 
yon have discovered in an age of iron, the goodness and innocence of 
the golden age; the gods before crowning you in the sojourn of the just, 
have granted you here below, a happy, agreeable and long old age; but, 
alas! that which should endure forever, is never sufficiently long: I feel 
no longer any pleasure to enjoy from it^without you. O dear shade! when 
shall I follow you! Precious remains, if you can still feel any thing, you 
would foel again without doubt, the pleasure of being mingled with 
those of Alcinous, mine shall also one day be mingled there; in wait- 
ing, all my consolation shall be to preserve the remains of him whom 

1 have loved so much. O Aristonous! no, you shall never die, but 
you shall live ever in the bottom or inmost recesses of my heart; rather 
would I forget myself than ever forget that man so amiable,, who has 
loved me so much, who so mnch loved virtue, to whom I owe every 
thing. 

After these words interrupted by profound sighs, Sophronimus placed 
the urn in the tomb of Alcinous. He sacrificed several victims, who* 



104 

blood mmnkted the altars of turf which encircled the tomb \ he poured 
out abundant libations of wine and milk; he burned incense brought from 
the remotest East, which ascended in an odoriferous cloud in the midst of 
the air. Sophronimous established forever, annually ,Jn the same sea- 
son, funeral games in honor of Alcinous and Aristonous. They as- 
sembled there from Carta, a happy and fertile country; from the en- 
chanting borders of the Meander, which delights in so many circumvo- 
lutions, and which seems to quit with regret the country which it wa- 
ters; from the e^er verdant banks of the Caystre; from the borders of 
the Pactolus, which rolls beneath its waves a golden sand; from Para- 
philia, which Ceres, Pomona and Flora emulously adorn; in fine, from 
the vast plains of of Cilicia, watered like a garden by torrents which 
fall from mount Taurus ever covered with snow. During this so sol- 
emn fete, the young boys and girls dressed in long robes of linen, 
whiter than the lilly,sung hymns in honor of Alcinous and Aristonous; 
tor they could not eulogise ihe one without the other, nor separate 
two men so closely united even after their death. 

What was the most wonderful, is that on the first day, whilst So- 
phronimous was making libations of wine arid milk, a myrtle of ex- 
quisite verdure and odor, arose in the midst of the ton b, and elevated 
suddenly its thick head to cover the two urns with its branches and 
shade. Each one exclaimed that Aristonous as a recompense for his 
virtue, had been changed by the gods into this beautiful tree; Sophron- 
imous took care to water it himself, and to honor it as a Divinity; the 
tree, far from growing old, is renewed every ten years, and the gods 
have wished to show by this miracle, that virtue which sheds so sweet 
a perfume over the memory of man, never dies. 



LETTER OF GANGANELLI. 

[Translated from Italian.] 

The following is a beautiful letter written by Ganganelli — Pope Clement 
XIV, born at S. Arcangelo near Rimini, in the year 1705, where he was 
held in the highest esteem for his talents and his public and private conduct: 

Signore Abate, cannot do better, to divert himself from perplexities 
and inquietudes-, than to travel in Italy. Every well informed man ow 7 es 
a homage to the country so renowned and so worthy of being so, and I 
shall see him there with unutterable pleasure. At first view will rise 
those bulwarks given by nature in the Appennines, and the Alps which 
separate us from the French, and which merit from us the title of Ul- 
tramontane. These are so many majestic mountains made to serve as 
ornament to the picture, of which they form the contours; the seas are 
«6 perspective that they present the most beautiful points of view, which 
can interest travellers and painters. Nothing is more admirable than a 
soil the most fertile, under the most beautiful climate, every where in- 
tersected with living waters, every where peopled with villages and 



105 

adorned with superb cities; such is Italy. If agriculture was held here- 
in as much honor as architecture; if the country was not divided into 
so many different governments, all of various form, and as it were all 
weak and of little extent, misery would not be seen by the side of mag- 
nificence, and industry without activity; but as the greatest disgrace, 
more attention is given to the embellishment of the cities than the cul- 
tivation of the fields, and every where the uncultivated soil reproaches 
the inhabitants with their idleness. 

If you enter by Venice you will see a city unique in the world by its 
situation, which is exactly like a vast fleet which reposes tranquilly on 
the waters, and which is not approached but by means of vessels. 

But this is not the only thing which will surprise you. The inhab- 
itants masked for four or five months in the year, the laws of a timor- 
ous government which permit the greatest liberty to diversions, the 
prerogatives of a prince who has no authority, the manners of a people 
who have no fear of its shadow, and enjoy the greatest tranquility, are 
things in themselves very different, but which in a particular manner 
interest a traveller. There is scarcely a Venetian who is not eloquent; 
they are rather formed from the collection of conceits of the gondoliers, 
full of the most rerined salt. 

The circumference of Ferrara will discover to you a beautiful and vast 
solitude, silent as the tomb of Ariosto, who reposes there. 

Bologna will present to your eyes another beautiful prospect. You 
will find there the sciences, familiar also to the fair sex, who exhibit 
themselves with dignity in the schools, and in the academies, among 
whom every one of them bears off a trophy. A thousand diverse pros- 
pects will please your mind and eyes, and the conversation there of the 
inhabitants will delight you very much. 

Whence for the space of more than three hundred miles you will 
traverse a multitude of little cities, each one of which has its theatre, 
and country house and some scholar or poet who applies himselt agree- 
able to his genius and the rule of his pleasure. 

You will visit Loretv), a pilgrimage famous for the concourse of stran- 
gers and the splendid treasures by which its temple is enriched. 

Finally, you will behold Home, which for a thousand continued years 
will be ever revisited with new pleasure, seated on seven hills called by 
the ancients the seven rulers of the world, seems fiom thence to govern 
the universe, and to say with pride to all people that she is their queen 
and capital. Roma, caput hominum domat ardua eorda uirorum. 

On casting your eyes on that famous Tevere, it will recall to your 
mind those ancient Romans who have spoken so much of it, and how 
many times it has flowed, swelled with their blood and with that of 
their enemies. 

You will go as it were into extacies at beholding the Cathedral of St. 
Peter called by connoiseurs the wonder ofthe world, since it is infinitely 
superior to St. Sophia's at Constantinople, to Saint Paul's in London, 
and even the temple of Solomon itself. It is a vase after the manner 
which it extends i'self as fir as it runs, and in which everv thing appears 
of an ordinary form. The paintings are ravishing, the mausoleums 
speak, and you would believe that you beheld that new Jerusalem de- 
scended from heaven, of which St. John speaks in his Apoealyp^r, 

\ 



106 

In the complication and in each part of the Vatican erected on the 
ruins of the faise oracles, will be found beauties of every kind to fatigue 
your eve, and you will stand enchanted with them. Mere is where 
Kallaello and Michael Angelo now in a terrible and now in an agreea- 
ble manner have unfolded in the most beautiful chef d'oeuvres, their 
genius, expressing to the life the internal force of their soul; and here 
is where is deposited the science and spirit of all the writers of theuni- 
verse in a multitude of works which compose the most vast and richest 
library in the world. 

The churches, the palices, the public places, the pyramids, the obe- 
lisks, the columns, the galleries, the facades, the theatres, the fountains, 
the vistas, the gardens, every thing will tell you that you are in Rome, 
and every thing will cause you to be attached to it, as a city which was 
ever continually by preference universally admired. 

You will discover finally a new world in all the figures of painting and 
sculpture, as well of the ancients as of the moderns, and you will be- 
lieve this world animated. The disgrace is that this magnificent view 
will then finish in the form of beggars maintained by Rome imprudently 
by distributing certain alms ill understood, instead of making them ap- 
ply themselves to useful labors; and in such a manner the rose discov- 
ers itself with the thorn, and vice is seen very often by the side of 
virtue. 

If the modern Romans do not seem to you in the least warlike, 
it therefore arises from their actual government which does not inspire 
them with valor; as to the rest there is found in them every seed of 
virtue, and they are as good soldiers as others, when they bear arms 
under some foreign power. 

You will pass from thence to Naples by the famous Appian Way 
which by its great antiquity is rendered to day, disgracefully, very in 
commodious, and will arrive at that Partenope where repose the ash* 
of Virgil, on which is seen sprung up a laurel which can never be bettc 
placed. 

On one side Mount Vesuvius, on the other the Elysian Fields will 
present to you so me very singular points of view; and after being satiated 
with them you will find yourself surrounded by a multitude of Napo- 
litans, vivacious and spiritual, but too much inclined to pleasure and 
idleness to be what they couid be. Naples would be an incomparable 
city, if there was not found there a throng of plebeans who have the 
air of wretches and of Malandirini, without bejrg often neither the 
one nor the other. 

The churches are richly adorned, but the architecture is in bad taste, 
which does not at all correspond with that of Home. You will expe- 
rience a singular pleasure in travelling on the environs of this city, de- 
lightful on account of the fruits, for its perspective views and its situa- 
tion; and you will be able to penetrate even into those famous subter- 
ranean vaults, where remained for some time engulphed the city of 
Herculaneum by an eruption of Vesuvius. 

If perchance it should be raging, you w T ould behold issuing from ita 
bosom torrents of fire which majestically expand through the cam- 
paigns. You will see in Portici a collection of what has been excavat- 



107 

ed from the ruins of Herculaneum, and the environs of Pozzuolo, al- 
ready celebrated by the prince of poets, will inspire you with a taste 
for poesy. It is necessary to go there with the /JEnead in your hand, 
and confront with the cave of the fcybil of Cuma, and with the Ache- 
ron what Virgil ha3 said of them. On your return you will pasa 
through Caserta, which for its embellishments, marble, extent, and 
aqueducts worthy of ancient Rome, may be called the, most be;Tuti!ul 
villa of Europe. Florence, from whence proceed the fine arts, and 
where exist as in depot their most magnificent chef d'ceuvres will pre- 
sent you with new objects. You will admire there a city which 
agreeable to the expression of a Portuguese, should be seen only on 
the Sabbath, so genteel and beautifully adorned. Every where are 
discovered the traces of the splendor and good tasteof the Medici, those 
restorers of the arts, described in the annals of genius. 

Leghorn, a sea-port as populous as advantageous to Tuscany; Pi^a, 
ever in possession of schools and having men erudite in all the depart- 
ments of science, fciena reftowned for the purity of the air and of the 
lan»uacre will interest you in turn in a particular manner; Parma situat- 
ed in the midst of the most fertile pastures, will show you a theatre 
which contains fourteen thousand persons, and in which every one un- 
derstands all which is said, although a mezza voce. Piacenza then 
will seem to you well worthy of the name which it bears, being a so- 
j )urn which for its situation and amenity pleases singularly travellers. 
You will not forget Modena,a country of the illustrious Muratori, and as 
a city celebrated by the name which it has given to its sovereigns. In 
Milan you will find the second church of Italy for beauty and grand- 
eur; more than ten thousand statues of marble adorn its exterior, and 
it would be a ch«.f d'oeuvre if it had a facade. The society of its in- 
habitants are remarkably peaceable. You can live there as at Paris, and 
all breathes an air ol splendor. 'J he Boromean islands will invite you to 
go and see the merchandise, and hear the account which will be given 
you of them- Situated in the midst of a very delicious lake, they present 
to the sight all that which is the most smiling and magnificent to be 
found in gardens. Genoa will prove herself to you to be really su- 
perb in her churches and in her palaces. You will observe there a 
port famous for its commerce and the affluence of strangers; there 
is* seen a Dogj who is changed almost like the superiors of the com- 
munity, and who has not much more authority. Turin"; finally the 
residence of a court where for a long time have dwelt the virtues, will 
enchant you with the regularity of the edifices, with the bjauty of the 
piazzas, with the regularity of its streets, with the spirit of its inhabi- 
tants; and which in such a manner will terminate your delightful voy- 
age. I have made as you clearly see ravy quickly the whole tour of 
Italy, and with the least hope, in the end. of inviting you in re- 
ality to come here. I shall not stop to tell you any thing of our cus- 
toms: they are not more corrupt than those of other nations, whatever 
the malignant may say of us; but they vary in the chiano oscuro ac- 
cording to the diversity of the governments, since the Roman does not 
resemble the Genoese, nor the Venetian the Neapolitan. It may be 
said of Italy as of the whole world, that except a little difference, there 



103 

is here as elsewhere, a litlle good and a little evil. I do not wish to 
prejudice you in relation to the politeness of'the Italians, nor even their 
love for the sciences and the tine arts, this heing a thing which you 
will know very soon by conversing with them, and yourself, especially 
above every other, and with whom they will experience the greatest sat- 
isfaction in conversation, and to whom it will even be a pleasure to be 



irj 



able to subscribe myself your very humble and very obedient servant. 



ON THE RELATIONS OF MAX WITH GOD. 

[Translated from Spanish.] 

Oh! man, whether noble, or artisan, learned, or ignorant, ecclesiastical, 
or secular , religious, or military, sovereign or subject, descend into your- 
self, and, in a silence profound, and uninterrupted, reflect on the hor- 
rors of nonentity, which preceded your conception! How from nonen- 
tity you have passed into being! how in an instant you have become a 
spirit, and body, that is, united into two substances, whose union ap- 
pears incompatible, and whose action is a continued prodigy! 

Neither your father, nor your mother hud the knowledge, or power 
to arrange your muscles, to dilute or liquidate your blood* or to hard- 
en your bones. An intelligence supreme, superior to all the powers of 
earth, and superior to all your conceptions, willed, and your existence 
commenced, willed, and you grew to the state in which you found your- 
self. Ah me! And what is this intelligence? Ah! who can exist, with- 
out the universal mover, the principle of all which respires and vegetates, 
and the infinite being whom we call God] His omnipotent hand form- 
ed you, when you could not know him, and preserves and maintains 
you at an age in which you have the vanity to outrage him. But if 
you were not yesterday, and may cease to be to day, is it possible that 
you can pass the day, which flies rapidly, without thinking on that 
Creator and Preserver, without giving him thanks and without ador- 
ng him. There is nothing within or without you, which is not his 
work. The universe which you found already formed, the stars which 
illuminate you, the plants and animals, which nourish you; and finally 
so many creatures, ever ready to satisfy all your necessities, have not 
been able of themselves to procure the wonderful benefit of existence. 
Since then all these creatures exist but for you, how great, must be 
your acts of thanks and correspondent obligations'! 

Who is that man among all mankind, capable of commanding the 
lightest zephyr not to breathe, the smallest gnat not fly, and the most 
imperceptible atom not to move? Ah! weak and impotent, even we our- 
selves have our existence only lent us, and act only in liim who gives 
movement and life. Our generation began like all those which preced- 
ed us; and consequently it is necessary to acknowledge a principle of 
production, which not having the power to be, nor to create itself, ne- 
cessarily must have existed before all ages How is it possible to sup- 
pose an instant, in cvhich God was not God, and a single instant, in 
which the Supreme Being, the only necessary, the only omnipotent, 
and the only universal, did not possess these qualities as essential as 
supreme. " EL MARQUES CARACCTOLO. 






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